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MBS. OLIPHANT^S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


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45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife ....... 30 

321 The Prodigals, and their Inheritance ... 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 

including some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam ' . . 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John 20 

370 Lucy Crofton . . . . . . . .10 

371 Margaret Maitland . . . • . . . . 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story, of the Scottish Reforma- 
tion 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret 

Maitland of Sunnyside 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Days of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate .... .20 

569 Harry Muir 20 

603 Agnes. First half 20 

603 Agnes. Second half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. First half. . 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. Second half . 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Portrait . , . . 10 

687 A Country Gentleman 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself .... 20 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


CHAPTER I. 

The day was warm, and there was no shade; out of the olive 
woods which they had left behind, and where all was soft coolness 
and freshness, they had emerged into a piece of road widened and 
perfected by recent improvements till it was as shelterless as a broad 
street. High walls on one side clothed with the green clinging trails 
of the mesembryanthemum, with palm-trees towering above, but 
throwing no shadow below; on the other a low house or two, and 
more garden walls, leading in a broad curve to the little old walled 
town, its campanile rising up over the clustered roofs, in which was 
their home. They had fifteen minutes or more of dazzling sun- 
shine before them ere they could reach any point of shelter. 

Ten minutes, or even five, would have been enough for Frances. 
She could have run along, had she been alone, as like a bird as any 
human creature could be, being so light and swift and young. But 
it was very different with her father. He walked but slowly at the 
best of times; and in the face of the sun at noon, what was to be 
expected of him? It was part of the strange contrariety of fate, 
which was against him in whatever he attempted, small or great, 
that it should be just here, in this broad, open, unavoidable path, 
that he encountered one of those parties which always made him 
wroth, and which usually he managed to keep clear of with such 
dexterity — an English family from one of the hotels. 

Tourists from the hotels are always objectionable to residents in 
a place. Even when the residents are themselves strangers, per- 
haps, indeed, all the more from that fact, the chance visitors who 
come to stare and gape at those scenes w^hich the others have ap- 
propriated and taken possession of are insufferable. Mr. Waring 
had lived in the old town of Bordighera for a great number of 
years. He had seen the Marina and the line of hotels on the beach 
created, and he had watched the travelers arriving to take posses- 
sion of them — the sick people, and the people who were not sick. 
He had denounced the invasion unceasingly, and with vehemence; 
he had never consented to it. The Italians about might be com- 
placent, thinking of the enrichment of the neighborhood, and of 
what was good for trade, as these prosaic people do; but the English 
colonist on Ihe Punto could not put up with it. And to be met 
here, on his return from his walk, by an unblushing band about 
whom there could be no mistake, was very hard to bear. He had 
to walk along exposed to the fire of all their unabashed and curious 


A HOUSE HIYIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


6 

glances, to walk slowly, to miss none, from that of the stout mother 
to that of the slim governess. In the rear of the party came the 
papa, a portly Saxon, of the class which, if comparisons could be 
thought of in so broad and general a sentiment, Mr, Waring dis- 
liked worst of all— a big man, a rosy man, a fat man, in large easy 
morning clothes, with a big white umbrella over his head. This 
last member of the family came at some distance behind the rest. 
He did not like the sun, though he had been persuaded to leave 
England in search of it. He was very warm, moist, and in a state 
of general relaxation, his tidy necktie coming loose, his gloves only 
half on, his waistcoat partially unbuttoned. It was March, when 
no doubt a good genuine east wind was blowing at home. At that 
moment, this traveler almost regretted llie east wind. 

The Warings were going up-hill toward their abode; the slope 
was gentle enough, yet it added to the slowness of Mr, Waring’ s 
pace. All the English party had stared at him, as is the habit of 
English parties; and indeed he and his daughter were not un- 
worthy of a stare. But all these gazes came with a cumulation of 
curiosity to widen the stare of the last comer, who had besides 
twenty or thirty yards of vacancy in which the indignant resident 
was fully exposed to his view. Little Frances, who was English 
enough to stare too, though in a gentlewomanly way, saw a change 
gradually come, as he gazed, on the face' of the stranger. His 
eyebrows rose up bushy and arched with sur]3rise; his eyelids 
puckered with the intentness of his stare; his lips dropped apart. 
Then he came suddenly to a stand- still, and gasped forth the word 
“Waring!” in tones of suriirise to which capital letters can give 
but faint expression. 

Mr. Waring, struck by this exclamation as by a bullet, paused 
too, as with something of that . inclination to turn round which is 
said to be produced by a sudden hit. He put up his hand mo- 
mentarily, as if to pull down his broad-brimmed hat over his brows. 
But in the end he did neither. He stood and faced the stranger 
with angry energy. “Well?” he said. 

‘ ‘ Dear me, who could have thought of seeing you here. Let me 
call my wife. She will be delighted. Mary! Why, I thought you 
had gone to the East. I thought you had disappeared altogether. 
And so did everybody. And what a long time it is, to be sure. 
You look as if you had forgotten me.” 

“ I have,” said the other with a supercilious gaze, perusing the 
large figure from top to toe. 

“ Oh come. Waring! Why — Mannering; you can’t have forgot- 
ten Mannering, a fellow that stuck by you all through. Dear, how 
it brings up everything, seeing you again! Why, it must be a dozen 
years ago. And what have you been doing all this time! Wan- 
dering over the face of the earth, I suppose, in all sorts of out-of- 
the-way places, since nobody has ever fallen in with you before.” 

“ I am something of an invalid,” said Waring. “ I fear I can 
not stand in the sun to answer so many questions. And my move- 
ments are of no importance to anj^ one but myself.” 

“Don’t be so misanthropical,” said the stranger in his large 
round voice. “You always had a turn that way. And I don’t 
>vonder if ^^ou are soured — any fellow would be soured. Won’t 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


? 

you say a word to Mary? She’s looking back, wondering with all 
her might what new acquaintance I’ve found out here, never think- 
ing it’s an old friend. Hillo, Mary! What’s the matter? Don’t 
you want to see her? Why, man, alive, don’t be so bitter. She 
and I have always stuck up for you; through thick and thin, we’ve 
stuck up for you. Eh! can’t stand any longer? Well, it is hot, 
isn’t it? There’s no variety in this confounded climate. Come to 
the hotel, then — the Victoria, down there.” 

Waring had passed his interrogator, and was already at some dis- 
tance, while the other, breathless, called after him. He ended, 
affronted, by another discharge of musketry, which hit the fugitive 
in the rear. ” I suppose,” the indiscreet inquirer demanded, 
breathlessly, “ that’s the little girl?” 

Frances had followed with great but silent curiosity this strange 
conversation. She had not interposed in any way, but she had 
stood close by her father’s side, drinking in every woixl with keen 
ears and eyes. She had heard and seen many strange things, but 
never an encounter like this; and her eagerness to know what it 
meant was great; but she dared not linger a moment after her fa- 
ther’s rapid movement of the hand, and the longer stride than 
usual, which was all the increase of speed he was capable of. As 
she had stood still by his side without a question, she now went on, 
very much as if she had been a delicate little piece of machinery of 
which he had touched the spring. That was not at all the charac- 
ter of Frances Waring; but to judge by her movements while at 
her father’s side, an outside observer might have thought so. She 
had never offered any resistance to any impulse from him in her 
whole life; indeed, it would have seemed to her an impossibility to 
do so. But these impulses concerned the outside of her life only. 
She went along by his side with the movement of a swift creature 
restrained to the pace of a very slow one, but making neither pro- 
test nor remark. And neither did she ask any explanation, though 
she cast many a stolen glance at him as they pursued their way. 
And for his part he said nothing. The heat of the sun, the annoy- 
ance of being thus intermpted, were enough to account for that. 

Before they could reach the shelter of their home, there was this 
broad bit of sunny road, mady by one of those top progi’essive 
municipalities, thirsting for English visitors and tourists in gen- 
eral, who till with hatred and horror the old residents in Italy; 
and then a succession of stony stairs more congenial to the locality, 
by which under old archways and through narrow alleys, you got 
at last to the wider center of the town, a broad stony piazza, under 
the shadow of the Bell Tower, the characteristic campanile which 
was the landmark of the place. Except on one side of the piazza, 
all here was in grateful shade. Waring’s stern face softened a little 
when he came into these cool and almost deserted streets. Here 
and there a woman at a door- way; an old man in the deep shadow 
of an open shop, or booth, unguarded by any window; two or three 
girls filling their pitchers at the well, but no intrusive tourists or 
passengers of any kind to break the noonday stillness. The pair 
went slowly through the little town, and emerged through another 
old gateway on the further side, where the Wue Mediterranean, 
with all its wonderful shades of color, and line after line of head- 


8 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


land cutting down into those ethereal tints, stretched out before 
them; ending in the haze of Ligurian Mountains. The scene was 
enough to take away the breath of one unaccustomed to that blaze 
of w^onderful light, and all the delightful accidents of those purple 
hills. But this pair were too familiarly acquainted with every line 
to make any pause. They turned round the sunny height from the 
gateway, and entered by a deep small door sunk in the wall, which 
stood high like a great rampart rising from the Punto. This w^as 
the outer wall of the palace of the lord of the town, still called the 
Palazzo at Bordighera. Every large house is a palace in Italy; but 
the pretensions of this were well founded. The little door by 
which they entered had been an opening of modern and peaceful 
times, the state entrance being through a great door- way and court 
on the inner side. The deep outer w^all was pierced by windows 
only at the height of Ihe second story, on the sea-side, so that the 
great marble stair up which Waring toiled slowly was very long 
and fatiguing, as if it led to a mountain top. He reached his rooms 
breathless, and going in through antechamber and corridor, threw 
himself into the depths of a. large but upright chair. There were 
no signs of luxury about. It was not one of those hennitages of 
culture and ease which English recluses make for themselves in 
the most unlikely places. It w^as more like a real hermitage; or, to 
speak more simply, it was like, wdiat it really was, an apartment in 
an old Italian house, in a rustic castle, furnished and provided as 
such a place, in the possession of its natural inhabitants, would be. 

The Palazzo was subdivided into a number of habitations, of 
which the apartment of the Englishman was the most important. It 
was composed of a suite of rooms facing to the sea, and command- 
ing the entire circuit of the sun; for the windows on one side w'ere 
to the east, and at the other the apartment ended in a large loggia, 
commanding the west and all the glorious sunsets accomplished 
there. We northerners, who have but a limited enjoyment of the 
sun, show often a strange indifference to him in the sites and situa- 
tions of our houses; but in Italy it is well knowm that where the 
sun does not go the doctor goes, and much more regard is shown 
to the aspect of the house. 

The Warings at the w^orst of that genial climate had little occa- 
sion for fire; they had but to follow the center of light when he 
glided out of one room to fling himself more abundantly into 
another. The Punto is always full in the cheerful rays. It com- 
mands everything — air and sea, and the mountains and all their 
thousand effects of light and shade; and the Palazzo stands boldly 
out upon this the most prominent point in the landscape, with the 
houses of the little town withdrawing on a dozen different levels 
behind. In the warlike days when no point of vantage which a 
pirate could seize upon was left undefended or assailable, it is 
probable that there was no loggia from which to watch the western 
illuminations. But peace has been so l«ng on the Riviera that the 
loggia too was antique, the parapet crumbling and gray. It opened 
from a large room, very lofty, and with much faded decoration on 
the upper walls and roofs, which was the salone or drawing-room, 
beyond which was an anteroom, then a sort of library, a dining- 
room, a succession of bed-chambers;, much space, little furniture, 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


9 


sunshine and air unlimited, and a view from every window which 
it was worth living to be able to look out upon night and day. This, 
however, at the moment of which we write, was shut out all along 
the line, the green persiani being closed, and nothing open but the 
loggia, which was still cool and in the shade. The rooms lay in a 
soft green twilight, cool and fresh; the doors were open from one to 
another, affording a long vista of picturesque glimpses. 

From where Waring had thrown himself down to rest, he looked 
straight through over the faded formality of the anteroom with its 
large old chairs, which were never moved from their place, across 
his own library, in which there was a glimmer of vellum Itindiug 
and old gilding, to the table with its white table-cloth, laid out for 
breakfast in the eating-room. The quiet soothed him after awhile, 
and perhaps the evident preparations for his meal, the large and 
rotund flask of Chianti which Domenico was placing on the table, 
the vision of another figure behind Domenico with a delicate dish 
of mayonnaise in her hands. He could distinguish that it was a 
mayonnaise, and his angry spirit calmed down. Noon began to 
chime from the campanile, and Frances came in without her hat 
and with the eagerness subdued in her eyes. ‘ ‘ Breakfast is ready, 
papa,” she said. She had that look of knowing nothing and guess- 
ing nothing beyond what lies on the surface, which so many 
women have. 

She was scarcely to be called a woman, not only because of being 
so young, but of being so small, so slim, so light, with such a tiny 
figure, that a stronger breeze than usual would, one could not help 
thinking, blow her away. Her father was very tall, which made 
her tiny size the more remarkable. She was not beautiful — few 
people are to the positive degree; but s he had the prettiness of 
youth, of round soft contour and peach-like skin, and clear eyes. 
Her hair was light brown, her eyes dark brown, neither very re- 
markable; her features small and clearly cut, as was her figure, no 
slovenliness or want of finish about any line. All this pleasing .ex- 
terior was very simple and easily comprehended; and had but 
little to do with her, the real Frances, who was not so easy to 
understand. She had two faces, although there was in her no 
guile. She had the countenance she now wore, as it were for daily 
use — a countenance without expression, like a sunny cheerful morn- 
ing in which there is neither care nor fear— the countenance of a 
girl calling papa to breakfast, very punctual, knowing that nobody 
could reproach her as being half of a minute late, or having a hair 
or a ribbon a hair’s-breadth out of place. That such a girl should 
have ever suspected anything, feared anything— except, perhaps, 
gently that the mayonnaise was not to papa’s taste— was beyond 
the range of possibilities; or that she was acquainted with anything 
in life beyond the simple routine of regular hours and habits, the 
sweet and gentle bond of the ordinary, which is the best rule of 
young lives. 

Frances Waring had sometimes another face. That profile of 
hers was not so clearly cut for nothing; nor were her eyes so lucid 
only to perceive the outside of existence. In her room, during the 
few minutes she spent there, she had looked at herself in her old- 
fashioned dim glass, and seen a different creature. But what that 


10 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 

was, or how it was, must show itself further on. She led the way 
into tl^ dining-room, the trimmest composed little figure, all 
England embodied — though she scarcely remembered En^and — in 
the self-restrained and modest toilet of a little girl accustomed to be 
cared for by women well instructed in the niceties of feminine cos- 
tume; and yet she had never hacTany one to take counsel with ex- 
cept an Italian maid-of-all-work, who loved the brightest primitive 
colors, as became her race. Frances knew so few English people 
that she had not even the admiration of surprise at her success. 
Those she did know took it for granted that she got her pretty sober 
suits, her simple unelaborate dresses, from some very excellent 
dress- maker at “ home,” not knowing that she did not ^ow what 
home was. 

Her father followed her, as different a figure as imagination 
could suggest. He was very tall, very thin, with long legs and 
stooping shoulders, his hair in limp locks, his shirt-collar open, a 
velvet coat— looking as entirely adapted to the locality, the con- 
ventional right man in the right place, as she was the woman. A 
gloomy look, which was habitual to him, a fretful longitudinal 
pucker in his forehead, the hollow lines of ill-health in his cheeks, 
disguised the fact that he was, or had been, a handsome man; just 
as his extreme spareness and thinness made it difficult to believe 
that he had also been a very powerful one. Nor was he at all old, 
save in the very young eyes of his daughter, to whom forty-five was 
venerable. He might have beem an artist or a poet of a misan- 
thropical turn of mind; though, when a man has chronic asthma, 
misanthropy is unnecessary to explain his look of pain and fatigue 
and disgust with the outside world. He walked languidly, his 
shoulders up to his ears, and followed by Frances to the table, and 
sat down with that air of dissatisfaction which takes the comfort 
out of everything. Frances either was inaccessible to this kind of 
discomfort, or so accustomed to it that she did not feel it. She sat 
serenely opposite to him, and talked of indifferent things. 

“ Don’t take the mayonnaise, if you don’t like it, papa; there is 
something else coming that will perhaps be better. Mariuccia does 
not at all pride herself upon her mayonnaise.” 

“ Mariuccia knows very little about it; she has not even the sense 
to know what she can do best. ” He took a little more of the dish, 
partly out of contradiction, which was the result which Frances 
hoped. 

‘ ‘ The lettuce is so crisp and young, that makes it a little better, ’ ’ 
she said with the air of a connoisseur. 

“A little better is not the word; it is very good, ” he said fret- 
fully; then added with a slight sigh: ‘‘Everything is better for 
being young.” 

“ Except people, I know. Why does young mean good with 
vegetables and everything else, and silly only when it is applied to 
people? though it can’t be helped, I know.” 

“That is one of your metaphysical questions,” he said with a 
slight softening of his tone. “ Perhaps because of human jealousy. 
We all like to discredit wliat we haven’t got, and most people you 
see, are no longer young.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSEDE. 11 

** Oh, do you think so, papa? I think there are more young peo- 
ple than old people.” 

“I suppose you are right, Fan; but they don’t count for so much 
in the way of opinion at least. What has called forth these sage 
remarks?” 

“ Only the lettuce,” she said with a laugh. Then, after a pause: 
“ For instance, there were six or seven children in the party we 
met to-day, and only two parents.” 

“ There are seldom more than two parents, my dear.” 

She had not looked up when she made this careless little speech, 
and 3^et there was a purpose in it, and a good deal of keen observa- 
tion through her drooped eyelashes. She received his reply with a 
little laugh. “ I did not mean that, papa; but that six or seven are 
a great deal more than two, which of course you will laugh at me 
for saying. I suppose they were all English?” 

” I suppose so. The father — if he was the father — certainly was 
English. ’ ’ 

” And you knew him, papa?” 

“ lie Imew me, which is a different thing.” 

Then there was a little pause. The conversation between the 
father and daughter was apt to run in broken periods. He very 
seldom originated anything. When she found a subject upon 
which she could interest him, he would reply, to a certain limit; 
and then the talk would drop. He was himself a very silent man, 
requiring no outlet of conversation ; and when he refused to be in- 
terested, it was a task too hard for Frances to lead him into speech. 
She on her side was full of a thousand unsatisfied curiosities, 
which for the most part were buried in her own bosom. In the 
meantime, Domenico made the circle of the table with the new dish, 
and his step and a question or two from his master were all the re- 
marks that accompanied the meal. Mr. Waring was something of a 
gourmet, but at the same time he was very temperate, a conjunction 
which is favorable to fine eating. His table was delicately furnished 
with dishes almost infinitesimal in quantity, but superlative in 
quality; and he eat his dainty light repast with gravity and slowly, 
as a man performs what he feels to be one of the most important 
functions of his life, 

‘ ‘ Tell Mariuccia that a few drops from a fresh lemon would have 
improved this ragout— but a very fresh lemon.” 

*’ Yes, excellency, /mc7^^ssmo, ” said Domenico with solemnity. 

In the household, generally nothing was so important as the sec- 
ond breakfast, except, indeed, the dinner, which was the climax of 
the day. The gravity of all concerned, the little solemn movement 
round the white-covered table in the still soft shade of the atmos- 
phere, with those green persian'is shutting out all the sunshine with- 
out, and the brown old walls, bare of any decorations throwing up 
the group, made a curious picture. The walls were quite bare, 
the floor brown and polished, with only a square of carpet round 
the table; but the roof and cornices were gilt and painted with tar- 
nished gilding and half-obliterated pictures. Opposite to Frances 
was a blurred figure of a cherub with a finger on his lip. She 
looked up at this faint image as she had done a hundred times, and 


12 A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 

was silent. He seemed to command the group, hovering over it 
like a little tutelary god. 


CHAPTER II. 

The Warings had been settled at Bordighera almost as long as 
Frances could remember. She had known no other way of living 
than that which could be carried on under the painted roofs in the 
Palazzo, nor any other domestic management than that of Domenico 
and Mariuccia. She herself had been brought up by the latter, who 
had taught her to knit stockings and to make lace of a coarse kind, 
and also how to spare and save, and watch every detail of the spese, 
the weekly or daily accounts, with an anxious eye. Beyond this, 
Frances had received very little education; her father had taught 
her fitfully to read and write after a sort; and he had taught her to 
draw, for which she had a little faculty; that is to say she had 
made little sketches of all the points of view round about, which, if 
they were not very great in art, amused her, and made her feel that 
there was something she could do. Indeed, so far as doing went, 
she had a good deal of knowledge. She could mend very neatly, so 
neatly, that her darn or her patch was almost an ornament. She 
was, indeed, neat in everything, by instinct, without being taught. 
The consequence was that her life was very full of occupation, and 
her time never hung heavy on her hands. At eighteen, indeed, it 
may be doubted whether time ever does hang heavy on a girl’s 
hands. It is when ten years or so of additional life have passed 
over her head, bringing her no more important occupations than 
those which are pleasant and appropriate to early youth, that she 
begins to feel her disabilities; but fortunately, that is a period of 
existence with which at the present moment we have nothing to do. 

Her father, who was not fifty yet, had been a young man when 
he came to this strange seclusion. Why he should have chosen 
Bordighera, no one had taken the trouble to inquire. He came 
when it was a little town on the spur of the hill, without either 
hotels or tourists, or at least very few of these articles; like many 
other little towns which are perched on little platforms among the 
olive woods all over that lovely country. The place had com- 
mended itself to him because it was so completely out of the way. 
And then it was very cheap, simple, and primitive. He was not, 
however, by any means a primitive-minded man; and when he 
took Domenico and Mariuccia into his service, it was for a year or 
two an interest in his life to train them to everything that was the 
reverse of their own natural primitive ways. Mariuccia had a little 
native instinct for cookery such as is not unusual among the Latin 
races, and which her master trained into all the sophistications of 
a cordon bleu. And Domenico had that lively desire to serve his 
padrone “ hand and foot,” as English servants say, and do every 
thing for him, which comes natural to an amiable Italian eager to 
please. Both of them had been encouraged and trained to carry 
out their inclinations. Mr. Waring was difficult to please. He 
wanted attendance continually. He would not tolerate a speck of 
dust anywhere, or any carelessness of service; but otherwise he 
was not a bad master. He left them many independencies, which 


13 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

suited them, and never objected to that appropriation to them- 
selves of his house as theirs, and assertion of themselves as 
an important part of the family, which is the natural result of a 
long service. Frances grew up accordingly in franker intimacy 
with the honest couple than is usual in English households. There 
w’as nothing they would not have done for the signorina, starve 
for her, scrape and pinch for her, die for her if need had been; and 
in the meantime, while there was no need for service more heroic, 
correct her and improve her mind, and set her faults before her 
with simplicity. Her faults were small, it is true, but zealous Love 
did not omit to find many out. 

Mr. Waring painted a little, and was disposed to call himself an 
artist; and he read a great deal, or was supposed to do so, in the 
library, which formed one of the set of rooms, among the old books 
in vellum, which took a great deal of reading. A little old public 
library existing in another little town further up among the hills, 
gave him an excuse, if it was not anything more, for a great deal 
of what he called work. There were some manuscripts and a num- 
ber of old editions laid up in this curious little hermitage of learn- 
ing, from which the few people who knew him believed he was 
going some day to compile or collate something of importance. 
The people who knew him were very few. An old clergyman, who 
had been a colonial chaplain all his life, and now “ took the serv- 
ice ” in the bare little room which served as an English church, 
was the chief of his acquaintances. This gentleman had an old 
wife and a middle-aged daughter, who furnished something like 
society for Frances. Another associate was an old Indian officer, 
much battered by wounds, liver, and disappointment, who, system- 
atically neglected by the authorities (as he thought), and finding 
himself a nobody in the home to which he had looked forward for 
so many years, had retired in disgust, and built himself a little 
house, surrounded with palms, which reminded him of India, and 
full in the rays of the sun, which kept off his neuralgia. He, too, 
had a wife, whose constant correspondence with her numerous 
children occupied her mind and thoughts, and who liked Frances 
because she never tired of hearing stories of those absent sons and 
daughters. They saw a good deal of each other, these three resident 
families, and reminded each other from time to time that there was 
such a thing as society. 

In summer, they aisappeared, sometimes to places higher up 
among the hills; sometimes to Switzerland or the Tyrol; some- 
times “home.” They all said home, though neither the Durants 
nor the Gaunts knew much of England, and though they could 
never say enough in disparagement of its gray skies and cold winds. 
But the Warings never went “ home.” Frances, who was entirely 
without knowledge of associations with her native country, used 
the word from time to time because she heard Tasie Durant or Mrs. 
Gaunt do so; but her father nev^er spoke of England, nor of any 
possible return, nor of any district in England as that to which he 
belonged. It escaped him at times that he had seen something of 
society a dozen or fifteen years before this date; but otherwise, 
nothing was known about his past life. It^ was not a thing that 
was much discussed, for the intercourse in which he lived with his 


14 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 

neighbors was not intimate, nor was there any particular reason 
why he should enter upon his own history; but yet now and then it 
would be remarked by one or another that nobody knew a:^thing 
of his antecedents. “ What’s your county, Waring?” General 
Gaunt had once asked, and the other had answered with a languid 
smile: “ I have no county, ” without the least attempt to explain. 
The old general, in spite of himself, had apologized, he did not 
know why; but still no information was given. And Waring did 
not look like a man who had no county. His thin long figure had 
an aristocratic air. He knew about horses and dogs and country- 
gentleman sort of subjects. It was impossible that he should turn 
out to be a shopkeeper’s son, or a bourgeois of any kind. However, 
as has been said, the English residents did not give themselves 
much trouble about the matter. There was not enough of them to 
get up a little parochial society, like that which flourishes in so 
many English colonies, gossiping with the best, and forging anew 
for themselves those chains of a small community which every 
body pretends to hate. 

In the afternoon of the day on which the encounter recorded in 
the previous chapter had taken place, Frances sat in the loggia alone 
at her work. She was busy with her drawing — a very elaborate 
study of palm-trees, which she v/as making from a cluster of those 
trees which were visible from where she sat. A loggia is something 
more than a balcony; it is like a room with the outer wall or walls 
taken away. This one was as large as the big salone out of which it 
opened, and had, therefore, room for changes of position as the 
sun changed. Though it faced the west, there was always a shady 
corner at one end or the other. It was the favorite place in which 
Frances carried on all her occupations — where her father came to 
watch the sunset, where she had tea, with that instinct of English 
habit and tradition which she possessed without knowing how. Mr. 
Waring did not much care for her tea, except now and then in a 
fitful way; and Mariuccia thought it medicine. But it pleased 
Frances to have the little table set out with two or three old china 
cups which did not match, and a small silver teapot, which was 
one of the very few articles of value in the house. Very rarely, not 
once in a month, had she any occasion for these cups; but yet, such 
an occasion did occur at long intervals; and in the meantime, with 
a pleasure not much less infantine, but much more wistful than that 
with which she had played at having a tea-party seven or eight 
years before, she set out her little table now. 

She was seated with her drawing materials on one table and the 
tea on another, in the stillness of the afternoon, looking out upon 
the mountains and the sea. No; she was doing nothing of the sort. 
She was looking with all her might at the clump of palm-trees 
within the garden of the villa, which lay low down at her feet be- 
tween her and the sunset. She was not indifferent to the sunset. 
She had an admiration which even the humblest art-training quick- 
ens, for the long range of coast, with its innumerable ridges run- 
ning down from the sky to the sea, in every variety of gnarled edge 
and gentle slope and precipice; and for the amazing blue of the 
water, with its ribbon-edge of paler colors, and the deep royal pur- 
ple of the broad surface, and the white sails thrown up against it, 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


15 

and the white foam that turned up the edges of every little wave. 
But in the meantime she was not thinking of them, nor of the in- 
finitely varied lines of the mountains, or the specks of towns, each 
with its campanile shining in the sun, which gave character to all; 
but of the palms on which her attention was fixed, and which, how- 
ever beautiful they sound, or even look, are apt to get very spiky 
in a drawing, and so often will not “ come ” at all. She was full 
of fervor in her work, which had got to such a pitch of impossibil- 
ity, that her lips were dry and wide apart from the strain of excite- 
ment with which she struggled with her subject, when the bell 
tinkled where it hung outside upon the stairs, sending a little jar 
through all the Palazzo, where bells w'ere very uncommon; and 
presently Tasie Durant, pushing open the door of the salone, with a 
breathless little “ Permessa?” came out upon the loggia in her usual 
state of haste, and with half a dozen small books tumbling out of 
her hand. 

“ Never mind, dear; they are only books for the Sunday school. 
Don’t you know we had twelve last Sunday? Twelve! think! 
when I have thought it quite large and extensive to have five. I 
never was more pleased. I am getting up a little library for them 
like they have at home. It is so nice to have everything like they 
have at home. ’ ’ 

“ Like what?” said Frances, though she had no education. 

“ Like they have — well, if you are so particular, the same as they 
have at home. There were three of one family — think! Not little 
nobodies, but ladies and gentlemen. It is so nice of people not just 
poor people, people of education, to send their children to the Sun- 
da v school.” 

New people?” said Frances. 

“Yes; tourists, I suppose. You all scoff at the tourists; but I 
think it is very good for the place, and so pleasant for us to see a 
new face from time to time. Why should they all go to Mentone? 
Mentone is so towny, quite a big place. And papa says that in his 
time Nice was everything, and that nobody had ever heard of Men- 
tone.” 

“ Who are the new people, Tasie?” Frances asked. 

“ They are a large family — that is all I know; not likely to settle, 
more’s the pity— Oh, no. Quite well people, not even a delicate 
child, ” said Miss Durant regretfully; “and such a nice domestic 
family, always walking about together. Father and mother and 
governess and six children. They must be very well off, too, or 
they could not travel like that, such a lot of them, and nurses— and 
I think I heard a courier too.” This, Miss Durant said in a tone of 
some emotion; for the place, as has iDeen said, was just beginning 
to be known, and the people who came as yet were but pioneers. 

“ I have seen them. I wonder who they are. My father ” — said 
Frances; and then stopped and held her head on one side, to con- 
template the effect of the last touches on her drawing; but this was 
in reality because it suddenly occurred to her that to publish her 
father’s acquaintance with the stranger might be unwise. 

' Your father?’' said Tasie. “ Did he take any notice of them? 
I thought he never took any notice of tourists. Llaven’t you done 
those palms yet? What a long time you are taking over them. 


16 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Do you think you have got the color quite right on those stems? 
Nothing is so difficult to do as palms, though they look so easy? 
except olives: olives are impossible. But what were you going to 
say about your father? Papa says he has not seen Mr. Waring for 
ages. When will you come up to see us?’* 

“ It was only last Saturday, Tasie.’^ 

“ — Week,” said Tasie. “ Oh, yes; 1 assure you; for 1 put it 
down in my diary; Saturday week. You can’t quite tell how time 

§ oes, when you don’t come to church. Without Sunday, all the 
ays are alike. I wondered that you were not at church last Sun- 
day, Frances, and so did mamma.” 

“Why was it? I forget. I had a headache, I think. I never 
like to stay away. But I went to church here in the village instead.’* 
Oh, Frances! 1 wonder your papa lets you do that. It is much 
better when you have a headache to stay at home. I am sure I 
don’t want to be intolerant, but what good can it do you going 
there ? You can ’ t understand a word. ’ * 

” Yes, indeed I do, man}’^ words. Mariuccia has shown me all 
the places; and it is good to see the people all saying their prayers. 
They are a great deal more in earnest Chan the people down at the 
Marina, where it would be just as natural to dance as to pray.” 

“ Ah, dance!” said Tasie, with a little sigh. “You know there 
is never anything of that kind here. I suppose you never tvas. at a 
dance in your life — unless it is in summer, when you go away?’^ 

“ I have never been at a dance in my life. I have seen a ballet: 
that is all,” 

“ Oh, Frances, please don’t talk of anything so wicked. A balletl 
that is very different from nice people dancing — from dancing one’s 
own self with a nice partner. However, as we never do dance here, 
I can’t see why you should say that about our church. It is a pity, 
to be sure, that we have no right church; but it is a lovely room, 
and quite suitable. If you would only practice the harmonium a 
little, so as to take the music when I am away. I never can afford 
to have a headache on Sunday,” Miss Durant added in an injured 
tone. 

“ But, Tasie, how could I take the harmonium, when I don’t even 
know how to play?” 

“ I have offered to teach you, till I am tired, Frances. I wonder 
what your papa thinks, if he calls it reasonable to leave you with- 
out any accomplishments? You can draw a little, it is true; but 
you can’t bring out your sketches in the drawing-room of an even- 
ing, to amuse people; and you can always play — ” 

“ When you can play.” 

“ Yes, of course that is what I mean; when you can play. It 
has quite vexed me often to think how little trouble is taken about 
you; for you can’t always be young, so young as you are now. 
And suppose some time you should have to go home — to your 
friends, you know?” 

Frances raised her head from her drawing and looked her com- 
panion in the face. “I don’t think we have any— friends, ” she 
said. 

“ Oh, my dear, that must be nonsense,” cried Tasie. I confess 
I have never heard your papa talk of any. He never says ‘ my 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


17 


brother,* or ‘ my sister,’ or * my brother-in-law,’ as other people do; 
but then he is such a very quiet man; and you must have somebody 
— cousins at least; you must have cousins; nobody is without some- 
body,” Miss Durant said. 

“ Well, I suppose we must have cousins,” said Frances. “ I had 
not thought of it. But I don’t see that it matters much; for if my 
cousins are surprised that I can’t play, it will not hurt them; they 
can’t be considered responsible for me, you know.” 

Tasie looked at her with the look of one who would say much if 
she could— wistfully and kindly, yet with something of the air of 
mingled importance and reluctance with which the bearer of ill 
news hesitates before opening his budget. She had, indeed, no actual 
ill news to tell, only the burden of that fact of which everybody felt 
Frances should be warned — that her father was looking more deli- 
cate than ever, and that his “ friends ” ought to know. She would 
have liked to speak, and yet she had not courage to do so. The 
girl’s calm consent that probably she must have cousins was too 
much for any one’s patience. She never seemed to think that one 
day she might have to be dependent on these cousins; she never 
seemed to think — But after all, it was Mr. Waring’s fault. It 
was not poor Frances that was to blame. 

“ You know how often I have said to you that you ought to play, 
you ought to be able to play. Supposing you have not any gift for 
it, still you might be able to do a little. You could so easily get an 
old piano, and I should like to teach you. It would not be a task at 
all. I should like it. I do so wish you would begin. Drawing 
and languages depend a great deal upon your own taste and upon 
your opportunities; but every lady ought to play.” 

Tasie (or Anastasia; but that name was too long for anybody’s 
patience) was a great deal older than Frances; so much older as to 
Justify the hyperbole that she might be her mother; but of this fact 
she herself was not aware. It may seem absurd to say so, but yet 
it was true. She knew, of course, how old she was, and how 
young Frances was ; but her faculties were of the kind which do 
not perceive differences. Tasie herself was just as she had been at 
Frances’ age — the girl at home, the young lady of the house. She 
had the same sort of occupations — to arrange the flowers; to play 
the harmonium in the little colonial chapel; to look after the little 
exotic Sunday school; to take care of papa’s surplice; to play a 
little in the evenings when they “ had people with them;’’ to do 
fancy work, and look out for such amusements as were going. It 
would be cruel to say how long this condition of young-ladyhood 
had lasted, especially as Tasie was a very good girl, kind and 
friendly and simple-hearted, and Ihinking no evil 

Some women chafe at the condition which keeps them still girls 
when they are no longer girls; but Miss Durant had never taken it 
into her consideration. She had a little more of the housekeeping 
to do, since mamma had become so delicate; and she had a great 
deal to fill up her time, and no leisure to think or mquire into her 
own position. It was her position, and therefore the best position 
which any girl could have. 

She had the satisfaction of being of the greatest use to her parents, 
which is the thing of all others which a good child would nalurally 


18 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


desire. She talked to Frances without any notion of an immeasur- 
able distance between them, from the same level, though with a 
feeling that the girl, by reason of having had no mother, poor 
thing, was lamentably backward in many ways, and sadly blind, 
though that was natural to the hazard of her own position. What 
would become of her if Mr. Waring died? Tasie would sometimes 
grow quite anxious about this, declaring that she could not sleep 
for thinking of it. If there were relations — as of course there must 
be — she felt that they would think Frances sadly deficient. To 
teach her to play was the only practical way in which she could 
show her desire to benefit the girl, who. she thought, might accept 
the suggestion from a girl like herself, when she might not have 
done so from a more authoritative voice. 

Frances on her part accepted the suggestion with placidity and. 
replied that she would think of it, and ask her father; and per- 
haps if she had time — But she did not really at all intend to learn 
music of Tasie. She had not desire to know just as much as Tasie 
did, whose accomplishments, as well as her age and her condition 
altogether, were quite evident and clear to the young creature, 
whose eyes possessed the unbiased and distinct vision of youth. 
She appraised Miss Durant exactly at her real value, as the young 
so constantly do, even when they are quite submissive to the little 
conventional fables of life, and never think of asserting their su- 
perior knowledge; but the conversation was suggestive, and be- 
guiled her mind into many new channels of thought. The cousins 
unknown, should she ever be brought into intercourse with them, 
and enter perhaps a kind of other world through their means; 
would they think it strange that she knew so little, and could not 
play the piano? Who were they? These thoughts circled vaguely 
in her mind through all Tasie ’s talk, and kept flitting out and in 
of her brain, even when she removed to the tea-table and poured 
out some tea. Tasie always admired the cups. She cried This is 
a new one, Frances. Oh, how lucky you are! What pretty bits 
you have picked up ” — ^with all the ardor of a collector. And then 
she began to talk of the old Savona pots, which were to be had so 
cheap, quite cheap, but which she heard at home were so much 
thought of. 

Frances did not pay much attention to the discourse about the 
Savona pots; she went on with her thoughts about the cousins, and 
when Miss Durant went away, gave herself up entirely to those 
speculations. What sort of people would they be? Where would 
they live? And then there recurred to her mind the meeting of the 
morning, and what the stranger said who knew her father. It was 
almost the first time she had ever seen him meet any one whom he 
knew, except the acquaintances of recent times, with whom she 
had made acquaintance, as he did. But the stranger of the morn- 
ing evidently knew about him in a period unknown to Frances. She 
had made a slight and cautious attempt to find out something about 
him at breakfast, but it had not been successful. She wondered 
whether she would have courage to ask Iier father now in so many 
words who he was and what he meant. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAlK^T ITSEDE. 


19 


CHAPTER III. 

As it turned Out, Frances had not the courage. Mr. Waring 
strolled into the loggia shortly after Miss Durant had left her. He 
smiled when he heard of her visit, and asked what news she had 
brought. Tasie was the recognized channel for news, and seldom 
appeared without leaving some little story behind her. 

“ I don’t think she had any news to-day; except that there had 
been a great many at the Sunday school last Sunday. Fancy, 
papa, twelve children! She is quite excited about it.” 

“ That is a triumph,” said Mr. Waring with a laugh. He 
stretched out his long limbs from the low basket-chair in which 
he had placed himself. He had relaxed a little altogether 
from the tension of the mornings feeling himself secure and at 
his ease in his own house, where no one could intrude upon 
him or call up ghosts of the past. The air was beyond expression 
sweet and tranquilizing, the sun going down in a mist of glory be- 
hind the endless peaks and ridges that stretched away toward the 
west, the sea lapping the shore with a soft cadence that was more 
imagined than heard on the heights of the Punto, but yet added 
another harmony to the scene. Near at hand, a faint wind rustled 
the long leaves of the palm-trees, and the pale olive woods lent a 
softness to the landscape, tempering its brightness. Such a scene 
fills up the weary mind, and has the blessed quality of arresting 
thought. It was good for the breathing too — or at least so this in- 
valid thought — and he was more amiable than usual, with no harsh- 
ness in voice or temper to introduce a discord. “ 1 am glad she 
was pleased,” he said. ” Tasie is a good girl, though not perhaps 
so much of a girl as she thinks. Why she goes in for a Sunday 
school where none is wanted, I can’t tell; but anyhow I am glad 
she is pleased. Where did they come from, the twelve children 7 
Poor little beggars! how sick of it they must have been.” 

” A number of them belonged to that English family, papa — ” 

“I suppose they must all belong to English families, ” he said 
calmly; ” the m-dives are not such fools.” 

” But, papa, I mean — the people we met— -the people you knew.” 

He made no reply for a few minutes, and then he said calmly : 
” What an ass the man must be, not only to travel with children, 
but to send them to poor Tasie’s Sunday school! You must do me 
the justice. Fan, to acknowledge that I never attempted to treat you 
in that way.” 

“No; but, papa— perhaps the gentleman is a very religious 
man.” 

“ And you don’t think lam? Well, perhaps I laid myself open 
to such a retort.” 

“ Oh, papa!” Frances cried, with tears starting to her eyes, 

“ you know I could not mean that.” 

“ If you take religion as meaning a life by rule, which is its true 
meaning, you were right enough, my dear. That is what I never 


20 


A HOTJSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF, 


could do. It might have been better for me if I had. It is always 
better for one to put one’s self in harmony with received notions 
and the prejudices of society. Tasie would not have her Sunday 
school but for that. It is the right thing. I think you have a 
leaning toward the right thing, my little gid, yourself.” 

” I don’t like to be particular, papa, if that is -what you mean.” 

“ Always keep to that,” her father said with a smile. And then 
he opened the book which he had been holding all this time in his 
hand. Such a thing had happened, when Frances was in high 
spirits and very courageous, as that she had pursued him even into 
his book; but it was a very rare exercise of valor, and to-day she 
shrunk from it. If she only had the courage; but she had not the 
courage. She had given up her drawing, for the sun no longer 
shone on the group of palms. She had no book, and indeed at any 
time was not much given to reading, except when a happy chance 
threw a novel into her hands. She watched the sun go down by 
imperceptible degrees, yet not slowly, behind the mountains. When 
he had quite disappeared, the landscape changed too; the air, as the 
Italians say, grew brown; a little momentary chill breathed out of 
the sky. It is always depressing to a solitary watcher when this 
change takes place. 

Frances was not apt to be depressed, but f^r the moment she felt 
lonely and dull, and a great sense of monotony took hold upon 
her. It was like this every night; it would be like this, so 
far as she knew, every night to come, until, perhaps, she grew old, 
like Tasie, without becoming aware that she h9,d ceased to be a 
girl. It was not a cheering prospect. And when there is any 
darkness or mystery surrounding one’s life, these are just the cir- 
cumstances to quicken curiosity, and turn it into something graver, 
into an anxious desire to know. Frances did not know positively 
that there was a mystery. She had no reason to think there was, 
she said to herself. Her father preferred to live easily on the Rivi- 
era, instead of living in a way that would trouble him at home. 
Perhaps the gentleman they had met was a bore, and that was why 
Mr. Waring avoided all mention of him. He frequently thought 
people were bores, with whom Frances was very well satisfied. 
Why should she think any more of it? Oh, how she wished she 
had the courage to ask plai ’ ^ n , Who are we? "^Tiere 



do we come from? Have 


But she had not the 


courage. She looked toward him, and trembled, imagining within 
herself what would be the consequence if she interrupted his read- 
ing, plucked him out of the quietude of the hour and of his book, 
and demanded an explanation — when very likely there was no ex- 
planation; when, in all probability, everything was quite simple, if 
she only knew. 

The evening passed as evenings generally did pass in the Palazzo. 
Mr. Waring talked a little at dinner quite pleasantly, and smoked a 
cigarette in the loggia afterward in great good-humor, telling 
Frances various little stories of people he had known. This was a 
sign of high satisfaction on his part, and very agreeable to her, and 
no doubt he was entirely unaware of the perplexity in her mind and 
the questions she was so desirous of asking. The air was peculiarly 
soft that evening, and he sat in the loggia till the young moon set, 


A HOUSE UITIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


n 

with an overcoat on his shoulders and a rug on his knees, some- 
times talking, sometimes silent — in either way a very agreeable 
companion. Frances had never been cooped up in streets, or ex- 
posed to the chill of an English spring; so she had not that keen 
sense of contrast which doubles the enjoyment of a heavenly even- 
ing in such a heavenly locality. It was all quite natural, common, 
and every-day to her; but no one could be indifferent to the sheen 
of the young moon, to the soft circling of the darkness, and the 
reflections on the sea. It was all very lovely, and yet there was 
something wanting. What was wanting? She thought it was 
knowledge, acquaintance with her own position, and relief from 
this strange bewildering sensation of being cut off from the race 
altogether^ which had risen within her mind so quickly and with so 
little cause. 

But many besides Frances have felt the wistful call for happiness 
more complete, W'hich comes in the soft darkening of a summer 
night; and probably it was not explanation, but something else, 
more common to human nature, that she wanted. The voices of the 
peaceful people outside, the old men and women who came out to 
sit on the benches upon the Punto, or on the stone seat under the 
wall of the Palazzo, and compare their experiences, and enjoy the 
cool of the evening, sounded pleasantly from below. There was a 
softened din of children playing, and now and then a sudden rush 
of voices, when the young men who were strolling about got excited 
in conversation, and stopped short in their walk for the delivery of 
some sentence more emphatic than the rest; and the mothers chat- 
tered over their babies, cooing and laughing. The babies should 
have been in bed, Frances said to herself, half laughing half crying, 
:n a sort of tender anger with them all for being so familiar and so 
much at home. They were entirely at home where they were; 
they knew everybody, and were known from father to son, and 
from mother to daughter, all about them. They did not call a dis- 
tant and unknown country by that sweet name, nor was there one 
among them who had any doubt as to where he or she was born. 
This thought made Frances sigh, and then made her smile. After 
all, if that was alll And then she saw that Domenico had brought 
the lamp into the salone, and that it was time to go in doors. 

Next morning, she went out between the early coffee and the mid- 
day breakfast, to do some little household business, on which, in 
consideration that she was English, and not bound by the laws that 
are so hard and fast with Italian girls, Mariuccia consented to let 
her go alone. It was very seldom that Mr. Waring went out, or 
indeed was visible at that hour, the expedition of the former day 
being very exceptional. Frances went down to the shops to do her 
little commissions for Mariuccia. She even investigated the Savona 
pots of which Tasie had spoken. In her circumstances, it was 
scarcely possible not to be more or less of a collector. There is no- 
body in these regions who does not go about with eyes open to any- 
thing there may be to “ pick up. ” And after this she walked back 
through the olive woods, by those distracting little terraces which 
lead the stranger so constantly out of his way, but are quite simple 
to those who are to the manner born— until she reached once more 
the broad piece of unshadowed road which leads up to the old 


22 A SOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELE. 

town. At the spot at which she and her father had met the English 
family yesterday, she made a momentary pause, recalling all the 
circumstances of the meeting, and what the stranger had said: 
“ A fellow that stuck by you all through.” All through what? she 
asked herself. As she paused to make this little question, to which 
there was no response, she heard a sound of voices coming from the 
iipper side of the wood, where the slopes rose high into more and 
more olive gardens. “Don’t hurry along so; I’m coming,” some 
one said. Frances looked up, and her heart jumped into her mouth 
as she perceived that it was once more the English family whom 
she was about to meet on the same spot. 

The father was in advance this time, and he was hurrying down, 
she thought, with the intention of addressing her. What should 
she do? She knew very well what her father would have wished 
her to do; but probably for that very reason a contradictory impulse 
arose in her. Without doubt, she wanted to know what this man 
knew and could tell her. Not that she would ask him anything, 
she was too proud for that. To betray that she was not acquainted 
with her father’s aflaii-s, that she had to go to a stranger for infor- 
mation, was a thing of which she \vas incapable. But if he wished 
to speak to her — to send, perhaps, some message to her father? 
Frances quieted her conscience in this w^ay. She was very anxious, 
excited by the sense that there was something to find out; and if it 
was anything her father would not approve, why, then, she could 
shut it up in her own breast and never let him Imow it to trouble 
him. And it was right at her age that she should know. All these 
sophistries hurried through her mind more rapidly than lightning 
during the moment in which she paused hesitating, and gave the 
large Englishman, overwhelmed with the heat, and hurrying down 
the steep path with his white umbrella over his head, time to make 
up to her. He w^as rather out of breath, for though he had been 
coming down hill, and not going up, the way was steep. 

“ Miss Waring, Miss Waring,” he cried as he approached, “ how 
is your father? I want to ask for your father,” taking off his straw 
hat and exposing his flushed countenance under the shadow of the 
green-lined umbrella, which enhanced all its ruddy tints; then, as 
he came within reach of her, he added hastily.. “ I am so glad I 
have met you. How is he? for he did not give me any address.” 

“ Papa is quite well, thank you,” said Frances with the habitual 
response of a child. 

“ Quite well? Oh, that is a great deal more than I expected to 
hear. He w^as not quite well yesterday, I am sure. He is dread- 
fully changed. It was a sort of guess-wwk my recognizing him at 
all. He used to be such a pow'erful-made man. Is it pulmonary? 
I suspect it must be something of the kind, he has so wasted away. ’ ’ 

“ Pulmonary? Indeed, I d^on’t know. He has a little asthma 
sometimes. And of course he is very thin,” said Frances; “but 
that does not mean anything; he is quite well.” 

The stranger shook his head. He had taken the opportunity to 
wipe it with a large white handkerchief, and had made his bald 
forehead look redder than ever. “ I shouldn’t like to alarm you,” 
he said “ I wouldn’t, for all the world; but I hope you have trust- 
worthy advice? These Italian doctors, they are not much to be 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 23 

trusted. You should get a real good English doctor to come and 
have a look at him,” 

Oh, indeed, it is only asthma; he is well enough, quite well, not 
anything the matter with him,” Frances protested. The large 
stranger stood and smiled compassionately upon her, still shaking 
his head. 

“ Mary,” he said; ” here, my dear! This is Miss Waring. She 
says her father is quite well, poor tiling. I am telling her I am so 
very glad we have met her, for Waring did not leave me any ad- 
dress. ’ ’ 

“ How do you do, my dear?” said the stout lady — not much less 
red than her husband — who had also hurried down the steep path 
to meet Frances. “ And your father is quite well? I am so glad. 
We thought him looking rather — thin: not so strong as he used to 
look.” 

” But then,” added her husband, “ it is such a long time since we 
have seen him, and he never was very stout. I hope if you will 
pardon me for asking, that things have been smoothed down between 
him and the rest of the family? When I say ‘ smoothed down,’ I 
mean set on a better footing — more friendly, more harmonious, I 
am very glad I have seen you, to inquire privately — for one never 
knows how far to go wilh a man of his — :well — peculiar temper.” 

“Don’t say that, George. You must not think, my dear, that 
Mr. Mannering means anything that is not quite nice and amiable 
and respectful to your papa. It is only out of kindness that he 
asks. Your poor papa has been much tried. I am sure he has al- 
ways had my sympathy, and my husband’s too. Mr. Mannering 
only means that he hopes things are more comfortable between your 
father and — Which is so much to be desired for everybody’s sake. ” 

The poor girl stood and stared at them with large, round, widely 
opening eyes, with the wondering stare of a child. There had been 
a little half -mischievous, half- anxious longing in her mind to find 
out what these strangers knew; but now she came to herself sud- 
denly, and felt as a traveler feels who all at once pulls himself up 
on the edge of a precipice. What was this pitfall which she had 
nearly stumbled into, this rent from the past, which was so great 
and so complete that she had never heard of it, never guessed it? 
Fright seized upon her, and dismay, and, what probably' stood her 
in more stead for the moment, a stinging sensation of wounded 
pride, which brought the color burning to her cheeks. Must she 
let these people find out that she knew nothing, at her age — that 
her father had never confided in her at all — that she could not even 
fonn an idea what they were talking about! She had pleased her- 
self with the possibility of some little easy discovery, of finding out, 
perhaps, something about the cousins, whom it seemed certain, ac- 
cording to Tasie, every one must possess, wherether they were 
aware of it or not — some little revelation of origin and connections ' 
such as could do nobody any harm. But when she woke up sud- 
denly to find herself as it were upon the edge of a chasm which 
had split her father’s life in two, the young creature trembled. She 
was frightened beyond measure by this unexpected contingency; 
she dared not listen to another word. 

“ Ohl” she said with a quiver in her voice, “ I am afraid I have 


24 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


no time to stop and talk. Papa will be waiting for his breakfast. 
I will tell him you — asked for him.” 

“Give him our love,” said the lady. “Indeed, George, she is 
quite right; we must huriy too, or we shall be too late for the 
table d'hote” 

“But I have not got the address,” said the husband. Frances 
made a little courtesy, as she had been taught, and waved her hand 
as she hurried away. He thought that she had not understood him. 

“ Where do you live?” he called after her as she hastened along. 
She pointed toward the height of the little town, and alarmed for 
she knew not what, lest he should follow her — lest he should call 
something after her which she ought not to hear, fled along toward 
the steep ascent. She could hear the voices behind her slightly 
elevated talking to each other, and then the sound of the children 
rattling down the stony course of the higher road, and the quick 
question and answer as they rejoined their parents. Then grad- 
ually everything relapsed into silence as the party disappeared. 
When she heard the voices no longer, Frances began to regret that 
she had been so hasty. She paused for a moment, and looked back; 
but already the family were almost out of sight, the solid figures 
which led the procession indistinguishable from the little ones who 
struggled behind. Wliether it might have been well or ill to take 
advantage of the chance, it was now over. She anlved at the 
Palazzo out of breath, and found Domenico at the door, looking 
out anxiously for her. “The signorina is late,” he said very 
gravely; “the padrone has almost had to wait for his breakfast. ” 
Domenico was quite original, and did not know that such a terrible 
possibility had threatened any illustrious personage before. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was natural that this occurrence should take a great hold of 
the girl’s mind. It was not the first time that she had speculated 
concerning their life. A life which one has always lived, indeed, 
the conditions of which have been familiar and inevitable since 
childhood, is not a matter which awakens questions in the mind. 
However extraordinary its conditions my be, they aie natural; they 
are life to the young soul which has had no choice in the matter. 
Still, there are curiosities which will arise. General Gaunt foamed 
at the mouth when he talked of the way in which he had been 
treated by the people “ at home;” but still he went “home” in 
the summer as a matter of course; and as for the Durants, it was a 
subject of the fondest consideration with them when they could 
jifford themselves that greatest of delights. They all talked about 
the cold, the fogs, the pleasure of getting back to the sunshine 
when they returned; but this made no difference in the fact 
that to go home was their thought all the year, and the most 
salient point in their lives. “ Why do we never ^o home?” 
Frances had often asked herself. And both these families, and all 
the people to whom she had ever talked, the strangers who went 
and came, and those whom they met in the rambles which the Wa- 
rings, too, were forced to take in the hot weather, when the mistral 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAlKST ITSELF. 


25 


was blowing, talked continually of tlieir country, of their parish, 
of their village, of where they lived, and wliere they had been born. 
But on these points Mr. Waring never said a word. And whereas 
Mrs. Gaunt could talk of nothing but her family, who were scat- 
tered all over the world, and the Durants met people they knew at 
every turn, the Warings knew nobody, had no relations, no house 
at home, and apparently had been born nowhere in particular, as 
Frances sometimes said to herself with more annoyance than humor. 
Sometimes she wondered whether she had ever had a mother. 

These thoughts, indeed, occurred but fitfully now and then, when 
some incident brought more forcibly than usual under her notice 
the difference between herself and others. She did not brood over 
them, her life being quite pleasant and comfortable to herself, and 
no necessity laid upon her to lucidate its dimnesses. But yet they 
came across her mind from time to time. She had not been 
brought face to face with any old friend of her father’s, that she 
could remember, until now. She had never heard any question 
raised about his past life. And yet no doubt he had a past life, like 
every other man, and there was something in it, something she 
could not guess what, which had made him unlike other men. 

Frances had a great deal of self-command. She did not betray 
her agitation to her father; she did not ask him any questions; 
she told him about the green-grocer and the fisherman, these 
two important agents in the life of the Riviera, and of what 
she had seen in the Marina, even the Savona pots; but she did 
not disturb his meal and his digestion by any reference to the En- 
glish strangers. She postponed, until she had time to think of it, all 
reference to this second meeting. She had by instinct made no re- 
ply to the question about where she lived; but she knew that there 
would be no difficulty in discovering that, and that her father might 
be subject at any moment to invasion by this old acquaintance, 
whom he had evidently no desire to see. What should she do? 
The whole matter wanted thought — ^whether she should ask him 
what to do; whether she should take it upon herself; whether she 
should disclose to him her new-born curiosity and anxiety, or con- 
ceal that in her own bosom; whelher she should tell him frankly 
what she felt — that she was worthy to be trusted, and that it was 
the right of his only child to be prepared for all emergencies, and to 
be acquainted with her family and her antecedents, if not with his 
— all these were things to be thought over. Surely she had a right, 
if any one had a right. But she would not stand upon that. 

She sat by herself all day and thought, putting forward all the 
arguments on either side. If there was, as there might be, some- 
thing wrong in that past — something guilty, which might make her 
look on her father with different eyes, he had a right to be silent; 
and she no right, none whatever, to insist upon such a revelation. 
And what end would it serve? If she had relations or a family from 
whom she had been separated, would not the revelation fill her with 
eager desire to know them, and open a fountain of dissatisfaction 
and discontent in her life, if she were not permitted to do so? 
Would she not chafe at the banishment, if she found out that some- 
where there was a home; that she had “ belongings ’’like all the 
rest of the world? These were little feeble barriers which she set 


A HOUSE UlVIBEl) AOAIHST ITSELF. 


^6 

up against the strong tide of consciousness in her that she was to 
he trusted, that she ought to know. Wliatever it was, and howevei 
she might bear it, was it not true that she ought to know! She was 
not a fool, or a cliild. Frances knew that her emhteen years had 
brought more experience, more sense to her than Tasie’s forty; that 
she was capable of understanding, capable of keeping a secret — and 
was it not her own secret, the explanation of the enigma of her life 
as well as of his? 

This course of reflection went on in her mind until the evening, 
and it was somewhat quickened by a little conversation which she 
had in the afternoon with the servants. Domenico was going out. 
It was early in the afternoon, the moment of leisure, when one 
meal with all its responsibilities was over, and the second great 
event of the day, the dinner, not yet imminent. It was the hour 
when Mariuccia sat in the anteroom and did her sewing, her mend- 
ing, her knitting — whatever was wanted. This was a large and 
lofty room, not very light, with a great window, looking out only 
into the court of the Palazzo — in which stood a great table and a few 
tall chairs. The smaller anteroom, from which the long suite of 
rooms opened on either side, communicated with this, as did also the 
corridor, which ran all the length of the houses, and the kitchen 
and its appendages on the other side. There is always abundance of 
space of this kind in every old Italian house. Here Mariuccia estab- 
lished herself whenever she was free to leave her cooking and her 
kitchen-work. She was a comely middle-aged ’woman, with a dark 
gown, a white apron, a little shawl on her shoulders, large ear-rings, 
and a gold cross at her neck, which was a little more visible than is 
common with Englishwomen of her class. Her hair was crisp and 
curly, and never had been covered with anything, save, when 
she went to church, a shawl or veil — and Mariuccia’s olive com- 
plexion and ruddy tint feared no encounter of the sun. Domenico 
w^as tall and spare and brown, a grave man with little jest in him; 
but his wife was always ready to laugh. He came out hat in hand 
while Frances stood by the table inspecting Mariuccia’s work. “ I 
am going out,” he said; “ and this is the hour when the English 
gentlefolks pay visits. See that thou remember w^hat the padrone 
said.” 

“ What did the padrone say?” cried Frances, pricking up her 
ears, 

” Signorina, it was to my wife I was speaking,” said Domenico. 

“ That I understand; but I wish to know as well. Was papa 
expecting a visit? What did he say?” 

” The padrone himself will tell the signorina,” said Domenico, 
“ all that is intended for her. Some things are for the servants, 
some for the family; Mariuccia knows what I mean.” 

‘‘You are an ass, ’Menico,” said his wife calmly. “Why 
shouldn’t the dear child know? It is nothing to be concerned about, 
my soul — only that the padrone does not receive, ^d again that he 
does not receive, and that he never receives. I must repeat this 
till the Ave Maria, if necessary, till the strangers accept it and go 
away.” 

“Are these special orders,” said Frances, “or has it always 
been so? I don’t think that it has always been so.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 27 

Domenico had gone out while his wife was speaking, with a 
half-threatening and wholly disapproving look, as if he would not 
involve himself in the responsibility which Mariuccia had taken 
upon her. 

“ Carina, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so . 
in the spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. Figure to your- 
self Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, 
1o disturb the signor padrone! That would be impossible. It ap 
pears, however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to 
whom the padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. 

It is no secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is 
a good man, is not very wise. Che / you know that as well as I. ” 

” And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any atten- 
tion — if he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand 
what it means when you say you do not receive. You must say 
he is not in; he has gone out; he is not at home.” 

” C/ie / die! cheC cried Mariuccia; ‘‘little deceiver. But that 
would be a lie.” 

Frances shook her head. “Yes; I suppose so,” she said with a 
troubled look; “ but if you don’t say it, the Englishman will come 
in all the same.” 

” He will come in, then, over my body,” cried Mariuccia with a 
cheerful laugh, standing square and solid against the door. 

This gave the last impulse to Frances’ thoughts. She could not 
go on with her study of the palms. She sat with her pencil in her 
hand, and the color growing dry, thinking all the afternoon through. 

It was very certain, then, that her father would not expose himself 
to another meeting with the strangers who called themselves his 
friends; innocent people who would not harm any one, Frances 
Avas sure. They Avere tourists — that Avas evident; and they might 
be vulgar — that was possible. But she was sure that there was no 
liarm in them. It could only be that her father was resolute to shut 
out his past, and let no one know what had been. This gave her 
an additional impulse, instead of discouragement. If it was so 
serious, and he so determined, then surely there must be sometliin^ 
that it Avas certain she, his only child, ought to know. She waited 
till the evening Avith a gradually groAving excitement; but not until 
after dinner, after the soothing cigarette, which he puffed so slowly 
and luxuriously in the loggia, did she venture to speak. Then the 
day was over. It could not put him out, nor spoil his appetite, nor 
risk his digestion. To be sure, it might interfere with his sleep; but 
after consideration, Frances did not think that a very serious mat- 
ter, probably because she had never knoAvn Avhat it was to pass a 
wakeful night. She began, however, with the greatest caution and 
care. 

“Papa,” she said, “I want to consult you about something 
Tasie Avas saying.” 

” Ah! that must be something very serious, no doubt.” 

” Not serious, perhaps but— She Avants to teach me to play.” 

“To play! What? Croquet? or whist, perhaps? I have always 
heard she was excellent at both.” 

“ These are games, papa,” said Frances with a touch of severity, 

“ She pieans the piano, Avhich is veiy different,” 


28 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“All!’’ said Mr. Waring, taking tlie cigarette from Ins lips and 
sending a larger puff of smoke into the dim air; “ very different in- 
deed, Frances. It is anything hut a game to hear Miss Tasie play.” 

“ She says,” continued Frances, with a certain constriction in her 
throat, “ that every lady is expected to play — to play a little at least, 
•even if she has not much taste for it. She thinks, when we go home 
— that all our relations will be so surprised — ” 

She stopped, having no breath to go further, and watched as well 
as she could, through the dimness and through the mist of agita- 
tion in her own eyes, her father’s face. He made no sign; he did 
not disturb even the easy balance of his foot, stretched out along 
the pavement. After another pause, he said in the same indifferent 
tone: “ As we are not going home, and as you have no relations in 
particular, I don’t think your friend’s argument is very strong. 
Do you?” 

“ Oh papa, I don’t want indeed to be inquisitive or trouble you, 
but I should like to know!” 

“ What?” he said with the same composure. “ If I think that a 
lady, whether she has any musical taste or not, ought to play? 
Well, that is a very simple question. I don’t, whatever Miss Tasie 
may say.” 

“ It is not that,” Frances, said regaining a little control of her- 
self. “ I said I did not know of any relations we had. But Tasie 
said there must be cousins: we must have cousins, everybody has 
cousins. That is true, is it not?” 

“In most cases, certainly,” Mr. Warring said; “and a great 
nuisance too. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think it would be a nuisance to have people about one’s 
own age, belonging to one — not strangers — people who were inter- 
ested in you, to whom you could say anything. Brothers and sis- 
ters, that would be the best; but cousins — I think, papa, cousins 
would be very nice.” 

“ I wiU tell you, if you like, of one cousin you have,” her father 
said. 

The heart of Frances swelled as if it would leap out of her breast. 
She put her hands together turning full round upon him in an atti- 
tude of supplication and delight, “ Oh, papa!” she cried with en- 
thusiasm, breathless for his next word. 

“ Certainly, if you wish it, Frances. He is in reality your first- 
cousin. He" is fifty. He is a great sufferer from gout. He has 
lived so well in the early part of his life, that he is condemned to 
slops now, and spends most of his time in an easy-chair. He has 
the temper of a demon, and swears at everybody that comes near 
him. He is very red in the face, very bleared about the eyes, 
very — ’ ’ 

“ Oh papa!” she cried in a very different tone. She was so much 
disappointed, that the sudden downfall had almost a physical- effect 
upon her, as if she had fallen from a height. Her father laughed 
softly while she gathered all her strength together to regain com- 
mand of herself, and the laugh had a jarring effect upon her nerves, 
of which she had never been conscious till now. 

“ I don’t suppose that he would c^re much whether you played 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELE. 29 

the piano or not; or that you would care much, my dear, what he 
thought/’ 

“ For all that, papa,” said Frances, recovering herself, “ it is a lit- 
tle interesting to know there is somebody, even if he is not at all 
what one thought. Where does he live, and what is his name? 
That will give me one little landmark in England, where there is 
none now.” 

“ Not a very reasonable satisfaction,” said her father lazily, but 
without any other reply. “In my life, I have always found rela- 
tions a nuisance. Happy are they who have none; and next best is 
to cast them off and do without them. As a matter of fact, it is 
every one for himself in this world.” 

Frances was silenced, though not convinced. She looked with 
some anxiety at the outline of her father’s spare and lengthy figure 
laid out in the basket-chair, one foot moving slightly, which was a 
habit he had, the whole extended in perfect rest and calm. He was 
not angry; he was not disturbed. The questions which she had put 
with so much mental perturbation had not affected him at all. She 
felt that she might dare further without fear. 

“ When I was out to-day,” she said, faltering a little, “ I met — 
that gentleman again.” 

” Ah,” said Mr. Waring — no more: but he ceased to shake his 
foot, and turned toward her the merest hair’s breadth, so little, that 
it was impossible to say he had moved, and yet there was a change. 

“And the lady,” said Frances, breathless. “ I am sure they 
wanted to be kind. They asked me a great many questions.” 

He gave a faint laugh, but it was not without a little quiver in it. 
“ What a good thing that you could not answer them,” he said. 

“ Ho you think so, papa? I*was rather unhappy. It looked as 
if you could not trust me. I should have been ashamed to say I 
did not know; which is the truth — for I know nothing, not so much 
as where I was bornl” cried the girl. “ It is very humiliating, 
when you are asked about your own father, to say you don’t know. 
So I said it was time for breakfast, and you would be waiting; and 
ran away.” 

“ The best thing you could have done, my dear. Discretion in a 
woman, or a girl, is always the better part of valor. I think you 
got out of that very cleverly,” Mr. Waring said. 

And "that was all. He did not seem to think another word was 
needed. He did not even rise and go away, as Frances had known 
him to do when the conversation was not to his mind. She could 
not see his face, but his attitude was unchanged. He had recovered 
his calm, if there had ever been any disturbance of it. But as for 
Frances, her heart was thumping against her breast, her pulses beat- 
ing in her ears, her lips parched and dry. “I wish, ” she cried, 
“oh I wish you would tell me something, papa! Do you think I 
would talk of things you don’t want talked about! I am not a 
child any longer; and I am not silly, as perhaps you think.” 

“ On the contrary, my dear,” said Mr, Waring, “ I think you are 
often very sensibl e . ” 

“ Papa! oh; how can you say that, how can you say such things 
- — and then leave me as if I were a baby, knowing nothing!” 

“ My dear,” he isa.id (with the sound of a smile in his voice, she 


30 


A HOUSE HIYIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


thought to herself), you are very hard to please. Must not I say 
that you are sensible? I think it is the highest compliment I can 
pay you.” 

“ Oh papa!” Disappointment and mortifications, and the keen 
sense of being fooled, which is so miserable to the young, took her 
very breath away. The exasperation with which we discover that 
not only is no explanation, no confidence . to be given us, but the 
very occasion for it ignored, and our anxiety bafifled by a smile — a 
mortification to which women are so often subject — flooded her 
being. She had hard ado not to burst into angry tears, not to be- 
tray the sense of cruelty and injustice, which overwhelmed her; 
but who could have seen any injustice or cruelty in the gentleness 
of his tone, his soft reply? Frances subdued herself as best she 
could in her dark corner of the loggia, glad at least that he could 
not see the spasm that passed over her, the acute misery and irrita- 
tion of her spirit. It would be strange if he did not divine some- 
thing of what was going on vfitliin her, but he took no notice. He 
began in the same tone, as if one theme was quite as important as the 
other, to remark upon the unusual heaviness of the clouds which 
hid the moon. “ If we were in England, I should say there was a 
storm brewing,” he said. Even here, I think we shall have some 
rain. Don’t you feel that little creep in the air, something sinister, 
as if there was a bad angel about? And Domenico, I see, has 
brought the lamp. I vote we go in. ” 

“Are there any bad angels?” she cried, to give her impatience 
vent. 

He had risen up, and stood swaying indolently from one foot to 
the other. “Bad angels? Oh, yes,” he said; “abundance; very 
difiCerent from devils, who are honest — like the fiends in the pict- 
ures, unmistakable. The others, you know, deceive. Don’t you 
remember? 

“ * How there looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright, 

And how he knew it was a fiend. 

That miserable knight.’ ” 

He turned and went into the salone, repeating these words in an 
under- tone to himself. But there was in his face none of the- bitter- 
ness or horror with which they must have been said by one who 
had ever in his own person made that discovery. He was quite 
calm, meditative, marking with a light intonation and movement of 
his head the cadence of the poetry. 

Frances stayed behind in the darkness. She had not the practice 
which we acquire in later life; she could not hide the excitement 
which was still coursing through her veins. She went to the corner 
of the loggia which was nearest the sea, and caught in her face the 
rush of the rising breeze, which flung at her the first drops of the 
coming rain. A storm on that soft coast is a welcome break in the 
monotony of the clear skies and unchanging color. After awhile 
her father called to her that the rain was coming in, that the win- 
dows must be shut; and she hurried in, brushing by Domenico, 
who had come to close everything up, and who looked at her I’e- 
proachfully as she rushed past liiip. She came behind her father’s 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 81 

cliair and leaned over to kiss him. “ I have got a little wet, and I 
think I had better go to bed,” she said. 

“ Yes, surely, if you wish it, my dear,” said Mr. Waring. Some- 
thing moist had touched his forehead, which was too warm to be 
rain. He waited politely till she had gone before he wiped it off. 
Is was the edge of a tear, hot, miserable, full of anger as well as 
pain, which had made that mark upon his high white forehead. It 
made him pause for a minute or two in his reading. “ Poor little 
girl!” he said with a sigh. Perhaps he was not so insensible as he 
seemed. 


CHAPTER V. 

It is a common impression that happiness and unhappiness are 
permanent states of mind, and that for long tracts of our lives we 
are under the continuous sway of one or other of these conditions. 
But this is almost always a mistake, save in the case of grief, which 
is, perhaps the only emotion which is beyond the reach of the mo- 
inentary lightenings and alleviations and perpetual vicissitudes of 
life. Heath, and the pangs of separation from those we love, are 
permanent, at least for their time; but in everything else there is an 
ebb and flow which keeps the heart alive. When Frances Waring 
told the story of this period of her life, she represented herself un- 
consciously as having been oppressed by the mystery that over- 
shadowed her, and as having lost all the ease of her young life pre- 
maturely in a sudden encounter with shadows unsuspected before. 
But as a matter of fact, this was not the case. She had a bad night 
— that is, she cried herself asleep; but once over the boundary which 
divides our waking thoughts from the visions of the night, she 
knew no more till the sun came in and woke her to a very cheerful 
morning. It is true that care made several partially successful as- 
saults upon her that day and for several days after. But as every- 
thing went on quite calmly and peacefully, the impression wore off. 
The English family found out, as was inevitable, where Mr. Wa- 
ring lived, without any diflBlculty; and first the father came, then the 
mother, and finally the pair together, to call. Frances, to whom a 
breach of decorum or civility was pain unspeakable, sat trembling 
and ashamed in the deepest corner of the loggia, whille these kind 
strangers encountered Mariuccia at the door. The scene, as a matter 
of fact, was rather comic than tragic, for neither the visitors nor 
the guardian of the house possessed any language but their own; 
and Mr. and Mrs. Mannering had as little understanding of the 
statement that Mr. Waring aid not “ receive ” as Frances had ex- 
pected. 

” But he is in — ^ in cam — I in?” said the wor^ Englishman. 

Then, my dear, of course it is only a mistake. When he knows 
who we are — when he has our names — ’ ' 

“ Non riceve oggi,'" said Mariuccia, setting her sturdy breadth in 
the door- way; “ oggi non riceve il signore ” master does not re- 
ceive to-day.) 

“But he is in?” repeated the bewildered good people. They 
could have understood “ Not at home,” which to Mariuccia would 
have been simply a lie — with which, indeed, had need been, or 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELE. 


32 

could it have done the padrone any good, she would have bur- 
dened her eon science as lightly as any one. But why, when it was 
not in the least necessary? 

Thus they played their little game at cross-purposes, while 
Franees sat, hot and red with shame in her corner, sensible to the 
bottom of her heart of the discourtesy, the unkindness of turning 
them from the door. They were her father’s friends; they claimed 
to have “ stuck by him through thick and thin;” they were people 
who knew about him and whom he belonged to, and the conditions 
of his former life; and yet they were turned from his door! 

She did not venture to go out again for some days, except in the 
evening, when she knew that all the strangers were at the inevi- 
table table d'hote ; and it was with a sigh of relief, yet disapiwint* 
ment, that she heard they had gone away. Yes, at last they did go 
away, angry, no doubt, thinking her father a churl, and she herself 
an ignorant rustic, who knew nothing about good manners. Of 
course this was what they must think. Frances heard those words, 
“ Non riceve oggi,” even in her dreams. She saw in imagination the 
astonished faces of the visitors. “But he will receive us, if you 
will only take in our names;” and then Mariuccia’s steady voice 
repeating the well-known phrase. What must they have thought? 
That it was an insult; that their old friend scorned and defied them. 
What else could they suppose? 

At last, however, they did go away, and Frances got over it. 
Everything went on as before; her father was just as usual — a 
sphinx indeed, more and more hopelessly wrapped up in silence and 
mystery; but so natural and easy and kind in his uncommuni- 
cativeness, with so little appearance of repression or concealment 
about him, that it was almost impossible to retain an^ feeling of in- 
jury or displeasure. Love is cheated every day in this way by 
offenders much more serious, who can make their dependents 
happy even while they are ruining them, and beguile the bitterest 
anxiety into forgetfulness and smiles. It was easy to make Frances 
forget the sudden access of wonderment and wounded feeling which 
had seized her,. even without any special exertion; time alone and 
the calm succession of the days was enough for that. She resumed 
her little picture of the palms, and was very successful — more than 
usually so. Mr. Waring, who had hitherto praised her little works 
as he might have praised the sampler of a child, was silenced by 
this, and took it away with him into his room, and when he brought, 
it back, looked at her with more attention than he had been used to 
show. “ I think,” he said, “ little Fan, that you must be growing 
up,” laying his hand upon her head with a smile. 

“lam grown up, papa; I am eighteen,” she said. 

At which he laughed softly. “ I don’t think much of your eight- 
een; but this shows. I should not wonder, with time and work, if 
— you mightn’t be good enough to exhibit at Mentone — after a 
while. ’ ’ 

Frances had been looking at him with an expression of almost 
rapturous expectation. The poor little countenance fell at this, and 
a quick sting of mortification brought tears to her eyes. The ex- 
hibition at Mentone was an exhibition of amateurs. Tasie was in it, 
and even Mrs. Gaunt, and all the people about who ever spoiled a 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIIS^ST ITSELF. 


33 


piece of harmless paper, “ Oh, papa!” she said. Since the failure 
Of her late appeal to him, this was the only formula of reproach 
which she used. 

“ Well,” he said, ‘ ' are you more ambitious than that, you little 
thing? Perhaps, by and by you may be fit even for better things.” 

“It is beautiful,” said Mariuccia. “You see where the light 
goes, and where it is in the shade. But, carina, if you were to copy 
the face of Domenico, or even mine, that would be more interesting. 
The palms we can see if we look out of the window; but imagine to 
yourself that ’Menico might go away, or even might die; and we 
should not miss him so much if we had his face hung up upon the 
wall.” 

“ It is easier to do the trees than to do Domenico,” said Frances; 
■“ they stand still.” 

“ And so would ’Menico stand still, if it was to please the signor- 
ina. He is not very well educated, but he knows enough for that; 
or even myself, though you will think, perhaps, I am too old to 
make a pretty picture. But if I had my veil on, and my best ear- 
rings, and the coral my mother left me — ” 

“ You look very nice, Mariuccia; I like you as you are; but I am 
not clever enough to make a portrait.” 

Mariuccia cried out with scorn. “ You are clever enough to do 
whatever you wish to do,” she said. “ The padrone thinks so too, 
though he will not say it. Not clever enough! Magari! too clever 
is what you mean.” 

Frances set up her palms on a little stand of carved wood, and 
was very well pleased with herself; but that sentiment palls perhaps 
sooner than anj’- other. It was very agreeable to be praised, and 
also it was pleasant to feel that she had finished her work success- 
fully. But after a short time, it began to be a great object of regret 
that the work was done. She did not know what to do next. To 
make a portrait of Domenico was above her powers. She idled 
about for the day, and found it uncomfortable. That is the mo- 
ment in which it is most desirable to have a friend on whom to be- 
stow one’s tediousness. She bethought herself that she had not 
seen Tasie for a week. It was now more than a fortnight since the 
events detailed in the beginning of this history. Her father, when 
asked if he would not like a walk, declined. It was too warm, or 
too cold, or perhaps too dusty, which was very true, and accord- 
ingly she set out alone. 

Walking down through the Marina, the little tourist town which 
was rising upon the shore, she saw some parties of travelers arriving, 
which always had been a little pleasure to her. It was mingled 
now with a certain excitement. Perhaps some of them, like those 
who had just gone away, might know all about her, more than she 
knew herself. What a strange thought it was. Some of those un- 
known people in their traveling cloaks, which looked so much too 
warm — people whom she had never seen before, who had not a no- 
tion that .she was Frances Waring! One of the parties was composed 
of ladies, surrounded and enveloped, so to speak, by a venerable 
courier, who swept them and their possessions before him into the 
hotel. Another was led by a father and mother, not at all unlike 
the pair who had “ stuck by ” 3Ir. Waring. How strange to im* 

2 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


34 


agine tliat tliey might not be strangers at all, but people who knew" 
all about her. 

In the first group was a girl, who hung back a little from the- 
rest, and looked curiously up at all the houses, as if looking for 
some one— a tall, fair-haired girl, with a blue veil tied over her hat. 
She looked tired, but eager, with more interest in her face than any 
of the others showed. Frances smiled to herself with the half' 
superiority which a resident is- apt to feel* a girl must be very sim- 
ple indeed, if she thought the houses on the Marina worth looking 
at, Frances thought. But she did not pause in her quick walk. 
The Durants lived at the other end of the Marina, in a little villa 
built upon a terrace over an olive garden — a low house with no 
particular beauty, but possessing also a loggia turned to the west,, 
the luxury of building on the Riviera. Here the whole family w^as 
seated, the old clergyman with a large English newspaper, wdiich he 
was reading deliberately from end to end; his wife with a work- 
basket full of articles to mend; and Tasie at the little tea-table, 
pouring out the tea. Frances was received with a little clamor of 
satisfaction, for she was a favorite. 

“ Sit here, my dear.” “ Come this way. close to me, for you 
know I am getting a little hard of hearing.” 

They had always been kind to her, but never, she thought, had 
she been received with so much cordiality as now. 

” Have you come by yourself, Frances? and along the Marina? 
I think you should make Domenico or his wife walk with you, 
when you go through the Marina, my dear.” 

“ Why, Mrs. Durant? I have alwaj^s done it. Even Mariuccia 
says it does not matter, as I am an English girl.” 

Ah, that may be true; but English girls are not like American 
girls. I assure you they are taken a great deal more care of. If 
you ever go home — ’ ’ 

“And how is your poor father to-day, Frances?” said Mr, 
Durant. 

“ Oh, papa is very well. He is not such a poor father. There is 
nothing the matter with him. At least, there is nothing new the 
matter with him,” said Frances with a little impatience. 

“ Ho,” said the clergyman looking up over the top of his spec- 
tacles and shaking his head. “ Nothing yieto the matter with him. 
I believe that. ’ ’ 

“ — If you ever go home,” resumed Mrs. Durant, “ and of course 
some time you will go home — ’ ’ 

“ I think very likely I never shall,” said the girl. “ Papa never 
talks of going home. He says home is here.” 

“ That is all very well for the present moment, my dear; but I 
feel sure, for my part, that one time or other it will happen as I say; 
and then you must not let them suppose you have been a little 
savage, going about as you liked here.” 

I don’t think any one would care much, Mrs. Durant; and I am 
not going; so you need not be afraid.” 

“ Your poor father,” Mr. Durant went on in his turn, “has a 
great deal of self-command, Frances; he has a great deal of self- 
control. In some ways, that is an excellent quality, but it may be 
carried too far. I wish very much he would allow me to come and 


m 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 35 

have a talk with him — not as a clergyman, but just in a friendly 
way.” 

‘ ‘ I am quite sure you may come and talk with him as much as 
you like,” said Frances, astonished; ” or if you want very much to 
see him, he will come to you.” 

“ Oh, I should not take it upon me to ask that — in the mean- 
time, ’ ’ Mr. Durant said. 

The girl stared a little, but asked no further questions. There 
was something among them which she did not understand — a look 
of curiosity, an air of meaning more than their words said. The 
Durants were always a little apt to be didactic, as became a clergy- 
man’s family; but Tasie was generally a safe refuge. She turned 
to her with a little sigh of perplexit}’-, hoping to escape further 
question. ” Was the Sunday school as large last Sunday, Tasie?” 
she said. 

“Oh, Frances, no! Such a disappointment! There were only 
four! Isn’t it a pity? But you see the little Mannerings have all 
gone away. Such sweet children ; and the little one of all has such 
a. voice. They are perhaps coming back for Easter, if they don’t 
stay at Rome; and if so, I think we must put little Herbert in a 
white surplice — he will look like an angel — and have a real anthem 
with a soprano solo, for once. ’ ’ 

“ I doubt if they will all come back,” said Mr. Durant. “ Mr. 
Mannering himself, indeed, I don’t doubt, on business ; but as for 
the family, you must not flatter yourself, Tasie.” 

“ She liked the place,” said his wife; “ and very likely she would 
think it her duty, if anything is to come of it, you know.” 

“Be careful,” said the clergyman, with a glance aside, which 
Frances would have been dull indeed not to have perceived was 
directed at herself. “Don’t say anything that may be prema- 
ture. ’ ’ 

Frances was brave in her way. She felt, with a little rising excite- 
ment that her friends were bursting with some piece of knowledge 
which they were longing to communicate. It roused in her an im- 
patience and reluctance mingled with keen curiosity. She would 
not hear it, and yet was breathless with impatience to know what it 
was. 

“ Mr. Mannering?” she said deliberately — “ that 'was the gentle- 
man that knew papa. ’ ’ 

. “ You saw him, then?” cried Mrs. Durant. There was some- 
thing like a faint disappointment in her tone. 

“ He Avas one of papa’s early friends,” said Frances with a little 
emphasis. “ I saw him twice. He and his wife both — they seemed 
kind people.” 

Mr. Durant and his wife looked at each other, and even Tasie 
stared over her tea-cups. “ Oh, very kind people, my dear; I don’t 
think you could do better than have full confidence in them, ’ ’ Mrs. 
Durant said. 

“ And your poor father could not have a truer friend,” said the 
old clergyman. “ You must tell him I am coming to have a talk 
with him about it. It was a great revelation, but I hope that every- 
thing will turn out for the best.” 

Frances grew redder and redder as she sat a mark for all their 


36 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

arrows. What was it that was a “revelation?” But she would 
not ask. She began to be angry, and to say to herself that she 
would put her hands to her ears, that she would listen to nothing. 

“ Henry!” said Mrs. Durant, “ who is it that is premature now?” 

“lam afraid I can’i stay,” said Frances rising quickly from her 
chair. “ I have something to do for Mariuccia. I only came in 
because — because I was passing. Never mind, Tasie: I know my 
way so well; and Mr. Durant wants some more tea.” 

“ Oh, but Frances, my dear, you really must let me send some one 
with you. You must not move about in that independent way.” 

“ And we had a great many things to say to you,” said the old 
clergyman, keeping her hand in his. “ Are you really in such a 
hurry? It will be better for yourself to wait a little, and hear some- 
thing that will be for your good.” 

“ It can not be any worse for me to run about to-day than any 
other day,” said Frances, almost sternly; “and whatever there is 
to hear, won’t to-morrow do just as well? I think it is a little funny 
of you all to speak to me so; but now I must go.” 

She was so rapid in her movements that she was gone before 
Tasie could extricate herself from the somewhat crazy little table. 
And then they all three looked at each other and shook their heads. 
“ Do you think she can know?” 

“ Can she have known it all the time?” 

“ Has Waring told her, or was it Mannering?” they said to each 
other. 

Frances could not hear their mutual questions; but something 
very like the purport of them got into her agitated brain. She felt 
sure they were wondering whether she knew — what? this revela- 
tion, this something which they had found out. Nothing would 
make her submit to hear it from them, she said to herself. But the 
moment was come when she could not be put off any longer. She 
would go to her father, and she would not rest until she was in- 
formed what it was. 

She hastened along, avoiding the Marina, which had amused her 
on her way, hurrying from terrace to terrace of the olive groves. 
Her heart was beating fast, and her rapid pace made it faster. But 
as she thought of her father’s unperturbed looks, the calm with 
which he had received her eager questions, and the very small likeli- 
hood that anything she would say about the hints of the Durants 
would move him, her pace and her excitement both decreased. She 
went more slowly, less hopefully back to the Palazzo. It was all 
very well to say that she must know. But what if he would not 
tell her? What if he reeeived her questions as he had received them 
before? The circumstances were not changed, nor was he changed 
because the Durants knew something, she did not know what. Oh, 
what a poor piece of friendship was that, that betrayed a friend’s 
secret to his neighbors! She did not know; she could not so much 
as form a guess what the secret was. But little or great, his friend 
should have kept it. She said this to herself bitterly, when the chill 
probabilities of the case began to make themselves felt. It was 
harder to think that the Durants knew, than to be kept in darkness 
herself. 

She went in at last very soberly, with the intention of telling her 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIJ^ST ITSELE. 


37 


father all that had passed, if perhaps that of itself might be an in- 
ducement to him to have confidence in her. It was not a pleasant 
mission. Her steps had become very sober as she went up the long 
marble stair. Mariuccia met her with a little cry. Had she not 
met the padrone? He had gone out down through the olive woods 
to meet her and fetch her home. It was a brief reprieve. In the 
evening after dinner was the time when he was most accessible. 
Frances, with a thrill of mingled relief and disappointment, retired 
to her room to make her tittle toilet. She had an hour or two at 
least before her ere it would be necessary to speak. 


CHxVPTER VI. 

When one has made up one’s mind to reopen a painful subject 
after dinner, the preliminary meal is not usually a very pleasant 
one; nor,, with the trouble of preparation in one’s mind, is one 
likely to make a satisfactory dinner. Frances could not talk about 
anything. She could not eat; her mind was absorbed in what was 
coming. It seemed to her that she must speak; and yet how gladly 
would she have escaped from or postponed the explanation. Ex- 
planation! Possibly, he would only smile and bafile her as he had 
done before; or perhaps be angry, which would be better. Any- 
thing would be better than that indifference. 

She went out to the loggia when dinner was over, trembling with 
the sensation of suspense. It w'^as still not dark, and the night w'as 
clear with the young moon already shining, so that between the re- 
tiring day and the light of the night it was almost as clear as it had 
been two hours before. Frances sat dowm, shivering a little, 
though not with cold. Usually, her father accompanied or imme- 
diately followed her; but by some i)erversity, he did not do so to- 
night. She seated herself in her usual place, and waited, listening 
for every sound; that is, for sounds of one kind — his slow step 
coming along the polished floor, here soft and mutfled over a piece 
of carpet, tliere loud upon the parquet. But for some time, during 
wiiich she rose into a state of feverish expectation, there was no 
such sound. 

It was nearly half an hour, according to her calculation, probably 
not half so much by common computation of time, wiien one or 
two doors were opened and shut quickly and a sound of voices met 
her ear— not sounds, however, wdiich had any but a partial interest 
for her, for they did not indicate his approach. After awhile there 
followed the sound of a footstep; but it w^as not Mr. Waring’ s; it 
was not Domenico’s subdued tread, nor the measured march of 
Mariuccia. It was light, quick, and somewhat uncertain. Frances 
was half disappointed, half relieved. Some one was coming, but 
not her father. It would be impossible to speak to him to-night. 
Tlie relief was uppermost; she felt it through her whole being. 
Not to-night; and no one can ever tell what to-morrow may bring 
forth. She looked up no longer with anxiety, but curiosity, as the 
door opened. It opened quickly; some one looked out, as if to see 
wdiere it led, then, wdth a slight exclamation of satisfaction, stepped 
out upon the loggia into the partial light. 


38 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Frances rose up quickly, with the curious sensation of acting over 
something which she had rehearsed before; she did not know where 
or how. It was the girl whom she had remarked on the Marina, 
as having just arrived, who now stood here, looking about her 
curiously, with her traveling cloak fastened only at the throat, her 
gauze veil thrown up about her hat. This new-comer came in 
quickly, not with the timidity of a stranger. She came out into 
the center of the loggia, where the light fell fully round her, and 
showed her tall slight figure, the fair hair clustering in her neck, a 
'Certain languid grace of movement, which her energetic entrance 
curiously belied. Frances waited for some form of apology or self- 
introduction, prepared to be very civil, and feeling in reality pleased, 
and almost grateful for the interruption. 

But the young lady made no statement. She put her hands up 
to her throat and loosed her cloak with a little sigh of relief. She un- 
did the veil from her hat. “ Thank heaven, I have got here at last, 
free of those people!” she said, putting herself sans-fagon into Mr. 
Waring’s chair, and laying her hat upon the little table. Then she 
looked up at the astonished girl, who stood looking on in a state of 
almost consternation. 

“ Are you Frances?” she said; but the question was put in an al- 
most indifferent tone. 

“Yes; I am Frances. But I don’t know — ” Frances was civil 
to the bottom of her soul, polite, incapable of hurting any one’s 
feelings. She could not say anything disagreeable; she could not 
demand brutally. Who are you? and what do you want here? 

“I thought so,” said the stranger; “and, oddly enough, I saw 
you this afternoon, and wondered if it could be you. You are a 
little like mamma. I am Constance, of course, ’ ’ slie added, looking 
up with a half-smile. “We ought to kiss each other, I suppose, 
though we can’t care much about each other. Can we? Where is 
papa?” 

Frances had no breath to speak; she could not say a wo rd. Shg 
looked at the new-comer with a gasp. Who was she? And -who 
was papa? Was it some strange mistake which had brought her 
here? But then the question, “ Are you Frances?” showed that it 
could not be a mistake. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said; “ I don’t understand. This is — 
Mr. Waring’s. You are looking for — your father?” 

“Yes, yes,” cried the other impatiently. “ I know. You can’t 
imagine I should have come here and taken possession if I had not 
made sure first! You are well enough known in this little place. 
There was no trouble about it. And the house looks nice, and this 
must be a fine view when there is light to see it by. But where is 
papa? They told me .he was always to be found at this hour.” 

Frances felt the blood ebb to her very finger-points, and then 
rush baek like a great flood to her heart. She scarcely knew where 
she was standing or what she was saying in her great bewilderment. 
“ Do you mean — my father?” she said. • 

The other girl answered with a laugh: “ You are very particular. 

I mean our father, if you prefer it. Your father— my father. What 
does it matter? Where is he? Why isn’t he here? It seems he 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 39 * 

must introduce us to each other. I did not think of any such for- 
mality. I thought you would have taken me for granted,” she said. 

Frances stood thunderstruck, gazing, listening, as if eyes and ears 
alike fooled her. She did not seem to know the meaning of the 
words. They could not, she said to herself, mean what they seemed 
to mean — it was impossible. There must be some wonderful, alto- 
gether unspeakable blunder. “ I don’t understand,” she said again 
in a piteous tone. “ It must be some mistake. ” 

The other girl fixed her eyes upon her in the waning light. She 
had not paid so much attention to Frances at first as to the new 
place and scene. She looked at her now with the air of weighing 
her in some unseen balance and finding her wanting, with impa- 
tience and half contempt. “ I thought you would have been glad 
to see me,” she said; “ but the world seems just the same in one 
place as another. Because 1 am in distress at home, you don’t want 
me here.” 

Then Frances felt herself goaded, galled- into the matter-of-fact 
que.stion, “ Who are you?” though she felt that she-would not be- 
lieve the answer she received. 

“ Who am I? Don’t you know who I am? Who should I be but 
Con — Constance Waring, your sister? Where,” she cried, springing 
to her feet and stamping one of them upon the ground, ” where, 
where is papa?” 

The door opened again behind her softly, and Mr. Waring with 
his soft step came out. “ Did I hear some one calling for me?” he 
said. “Frances, it is not you, surely, that are quarreling with 
your visitor? I beg the lady’s pardon; I can not see who it is.” 

The stranger turned upon him with impatience in her tone. “ It 
was I who called,” she said. “ I thought you were sure to be here. 
Father, I have always heard that you were kind — a kind man, they 
all said; that was why I came, thinking — I am Constance!” she 
added after a pause, drawing herself up and facing him with some- 
thing of his own gesture and attitude. She was tall, not much less 
than Im was; very unlike little Frances. Her slight figure seemed 
to draw out as she raised her head and looked at him. She was not 
a suppliant. Her whole air was one of indignation that she should 
be subjected to a moment’s doubt. 

“ Constance!” said Mr. Waring. The daylight was gone outside; 
the moon had got behind a fleecy white cloud; behind those two 
figures there was a gleam of light from within, Domenico having 
brought in the lamp into the drawing-room. He stepped back- 
ward, opening the glass door. “ Come in,” he said, “ to the light.” 

Frances came last, with a great commotion in her heart, but ver^ 
still externally. She felt herself to have sunk into quite a subordi- 
nate place. The other two, they were the chief figures. She had 
now no explanation to ask, no questions to put, though she had a 
thousand; but everything was in the background, everything in- 
ferior. The chief interest was with the others liow. 

Constance stepped in after him with a proud freedom of step, with 
the air of one who was mistress of herself and her fate. She went up 
to the table on which the tall lamp stood, her face on a level with it, 
fully lighted up by it. She held her hat in her hand, and played 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


40 

with it with a careless yet half-nervous gesture. Her fair hair was 
short and clustered on her neck and about her forehead, almost 
like a child’s, though she was not like a child. Mr. Waring look- 
ing at her, was more agitated than she. He trembled a little; his 
eyelids were lifted high over his eyes. Her air was a little defiant; 
but there was no suspicion, only a little uncertainty in his. He put 
out his hand to her after a minute’s inspection. “ If you are Con- 
stance, you are welcome, ’ ’ he said. 

“ I don’t suppose that you have any doubt I am Constance,” said 
the girl, flinging her hat on the table and herself into a chair. “ It 
is a very curious way to receive one, though, after such a long 
journey — such a tiresome long journey,” she repeated with a voice 
into which a querulous tone of exhaustion had come. 

Mr. Waring sat down too in the immediate center of the light. He 
had not kissed her nor approached her, save by the momentary 
touch of their hands. It was a curious way to receive a stranger, a 
daughter. She lay back in her chair, as if wearied out, and tears 
came to her eyes. “ I should not have come, if I had known,” she 
said with her lip quivering. “ I am very tired. I put up with 
everything on the journey, thinking, when I came here — And I 
am more a stranger here than anywhere!” She paused, choking 
with the half-hysterical fit of crying which she would not allow to 
overcome her. ” She — knows nothing about me!” she cried with 
a sharp pain, as if this was the last blow. 

Frances in her bewilderment did not Imow what to do or say. 
She looked at her father; but his face was dumb, and gave her no 
suggestion; and then she looked at the new-comer, who lay back 
with her head against the back of the chair, her eyes closed, tears 
forcing their way through her eyelashes, her slender white throat 
convulsively struggling with a sob. The mind of Frances had been 
shaken by a sudden storm of feelings unaccustomed; a throb of 
something which she did not undersiand, which was jealousy, 
though she neither knew nor intended it, had gone through her 
being. She seemed to see herself cast forth from her easy suprem- 
acy, her sway over her father’s house, deposed from her principal 
place. And she was only human. Already she was conscious of a 
downfall. Constance had drawn the interest toward herself — it 
w'as she to whom every eye would turn. The girl stood apart for a 
moment, with that inevitable movement which has been in the bosom 
of so many since the well-behaved brother of the Prodigal put it in 
words, “Now that this thy son has come. ” Constance, so far as 
Frances knew, was no prodigal; but she was what was almost’ 
worse — a stranger, and yet the honors of the house were t( 5 ^be hers. 
She stood thus, looking on, until the sight of the suppressed sob, of 
the closed eyes, of the weary, hopeless attitude, were too much for 
her. Then it came suddenly into her mind. If she is Constance! 
Frances had not known half an hour before that there was any Con- 
stance who had a right to her sympathy in the world. She gave her 
father another questioning look, but got no reply from his eyes. 
Whatever had to be done must be done by herself. She went up to 
the chair in which her sister lay and touched her on the shoulder. 
“ If we had known 5’-ou were coming,” she said, “ it would have 
been different. It is a little 5"our fault not to let us know. I should 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


41 


have gone to meet you; I should have made your room ready. We 
have nothing ready, because we did not know.” 

Constance sat suddenly up in her chair and shook her head, as if 
to shake off the emotion that had been too much for her. ‘ ‘ How 
sensible you are,” she said. “ Is that your character? She is quite 
right, isn’t she? But I did not think of that. I suppose I am im- 
petuous, as people say. I was unhappy, and I thought you would 
— receive me with open arms. It is evident I am not the sensible 
one.” She said this with still a quiver in her lip, but also a smile, 
pushing back her chair, and resuming the unconcerned air which 
she had worn at first. 

“ Frances is quite right. You ought to have written and warned 
us,” said Mr. Waring. 

” Oh, yes; there are so many things that one ought to do?” 

‘ ‘ But we will do the best for you, now you are here. Mariuccia 
will easily make a room ready. Where is your baggage? Do- 
menico can go to the railway, to the hotel, wherever you have come 
from. ’ ’ 

“ My box is outside the door. I made them bring it. The woman 
— is that Mariuccia? — would not take it in. But she let me come in. 
She was not suspicious. She did not say, ‘ If you are Constance.’ 
And here she laughed, with a sound that grated upon Mr. Wa- 
ring’s nerves. He jumped up suddenly from his chair. 

” I had no proof that you were Constance,” he said, “ though I 
believed it. But only your mother’s daughter could reproduce that 
laugh. ” . 

“Has Frances got it?” the girl cried, with an instant lighting 
up of opposition in her eyes; “ for I am like you; but she is the 
image of mamma.” 

He turned round and looked at Frances, who, feeling that an entire 
circle of new emotions, unknown to her, had come into being at a 
bound, stood with a passive, frightened look, spectator of every- 
thing, not knowing how to adapt herself to the new turn of affairs. 

“ By Jove!” her father said, with an air of exasperation she had 
never seen in him before, “ that is true! But I had never noticed it. 
Even Frances. You’ve come to set us all by the ears.” 

“ Oh, no! I’ll tell you, if you like, why I came. Mamma — has 
been more aggravating than usual. I said to myself you would be 
sure to understand what that meant. And something arose — I will 
tell you about it after — a complication, something that mamma 
insisted I should do, though I had made-up my mind not to do it.” 

“ You had better, ” said her father, with a smile, “take care 
what ideas on that subject you put into your sister’s head. ’ ’ 

Constance paused, and looked at Frances with a look which was 
half scrutinizing, half-contemptuous. “ Oh, she is not like me,”^ 
she said. “ Mamma was very aggravating, as you know she can be. 
She wanted me — But I’ll tell you after.” And then slie began r 
“ I hope, because you live in Italy, papa, you don’t think you 
ought to be a mediaeval parent; but that sort of thing in Belgravia, 
you know, is too ridiculous. It was so out of the question, that it 
was some time before I understood. It was not exactly a case of 
being locked up in my room and kept on bread and water; but 
something of the sort. I was so much astonished at first, I did 


A HOUSE DIYIDtD AGAIHST ITSELF. 


•42 

not know wliat to do; and then it became intolerable. I had no- 
body I could appeal to, for everybody agreed with her. Markham is 
generally a safe person; but even Markham took her side. So I 
immediately thought of you. I said to myself: One’s father is the 
right person to protect one. And I knew, of course, that if any- 
body in the world could understand how impossible it is to live 
with mamma when she has taken a thing in her head, it would be 
you.” 

Waring kept his eye upon Frances while this was being said, with 
an almost comic embarrassment. It was half laughable; but it was 
painful, as so many laughable things are; and there was something 
like alarm, or rather timidity, in the look. The man looked afraid 
of the little girl — whom all her life he had treated as a child — and 
her clear sensible eyes. 

” One thinks these things, perhaps; but one does not put them 
into words, ’ ’ he said. 

” Oh! it is no worse to say them than to think them,” said Con- 
stance. ”1 always say what I mean. And you must know that 
things went very far — so far, that I couldn’t put up with it any 
longer; so I made up my mind all at once that I would come off to 
you.” 

” And I tell you, you are welcome, my dear. It is so long since 
I saw you, that I could not have recognized you. That is natural 
enough. But now that you are here— I can not decide upon the 
wisdom of the step till I know all the circumstances — ” 

“Oh, wisdom! I don’t suppose there is any wisdom about it. 
No one expects wisdom from me. But what could I do? There 
was nothing else that I could do.” 

“ At all events,” said Waring, with a little inclination of his head 
and a smile, as if he were talking to a visitor, Frances said to herslf 
— “ Frances and I will forgive any lack of wisdom which has given 
us — this pleasure.” He laughed at himself as bespoke. “You 
must expect for a time to feel like a fine lady paying a visit to her 
poor relations,” he said. 

“ Oh, I know you will approve of me when you hear everything. 
Mamma says I am a Waring all over, your own child.” 

The sensations with which Frances stood and listened, it would 
be impossible to describe. Mamma! who was this, of whom the other 
girl s^ke so lightly, whom she had never heard of before? Was it 
possible that a mother as well as a sister existed for her, as for 
others, in the unknown world out of which Constance had come? 
A hundred questions were on her lips, but she controlled herself, 
and asked none of them. Reflection, which comes so often slowly, 
almost painfully, to her came now like the flash of lightning. She 
would not betray to any one, not even to Constance, that she had 
never known she had a mother. Papa might be wrong — oh, how 
wrong he had been! but she would not betray him. She checked 
the exclamation on her lips; she subdued her soul altogether, forcing 
it into silence. This was the secret she had been so anxious to pene- 
trate, which he had kept so closely from her. Why should he have 
kept it from her? It was evident it had not been kept on the other 
side. Whatever had happened, had Frances been in trouble, she 
knew of no one with whom she could have taken refuge; but her 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


4 ? 


sister had known. Her brain was made dizzy by these thoiights.^ 
It was open to her now to ask wliatever she pleased. The mystery 
had been made plain; but at the same time her mouth was stopped. 
She would not confuse her father, nor betray him. It w'as chiefly 
from this bewildering sensation, and not, as her father, suddenly 
grown acute in respect to Frances, thought, from a mortifying con- 
sciousness that Constance would speak with more freedom if she- 
were not there, that Frances spoke. “ I think,” she said, “ that I 
had better go and see about the rooms. Mariuccia will not know 
what to do till I come; and you will take care of Constance, papa.” 

He looked at her, hearing in her tone a w'ounded feeling, a touch 
of forlorn pride, which, perhaps, were there, but not so much as 
he thought; but it was Constance that replied: ” Oh, yes; we will 
take care of each other. I have so much to tell him,” with a laugh. 
Frances was aware that there was relief in it, in the prospect of her 
own absence; but she did not feel it so strongly as her father did. 
She gave them both a smile, and w^ent away. 

“So that is Frances,” said the new-found sister, looking after 
her. “I find her very like mamma. But everybody says lam 
your child, disposition and all.” She rose, and came up to Waring, 
who had never lessened the distance between himself and her. She 
put her hand into his arm and held up her face to him. ‘ ‘ I am like 
you. I shall be much happier with you. Do you think you will 
like having me instead of Frances, father?” She clasped his arm 
against her in a caressing way, and leaned her cheek upoh the sleeve 
of his velvet coat. “ Don’t you think you would like to have 
father, instead of her?” she said. 

A whole panorama of the situation, like a landscape, suddenly 
fiashed before Waring’s mind. The spell of this caress, and con- 
fidence she showed of being loved, which is so great a charm, and 
the impulse of nature, so much as that is worth, drew him toward 
the handsome girl, who took possession of him and his affections 
without a doubt, and pushed away the other from his heart and hi.s 
side with an impulse which his philosophy said was common to all 
men — or at least, if that was too sweeping, to all women. But in 
the same moment came that sense of championship and proprietor- 
ship, the one inextricably mingled with the other, which makes us 
all defend our own, whenever assailed. Frances was his own; she 
was his creation; he had taught her almost everything. Poor little 
Frances! Hot like this girl, who could speak for herself, who could 
go everywhere, half commanding, half taking with guile eveiy 
heart that she encountered. Frances would never do that. But she 
would be true, true as the heavens themselves, and never falter. 
By a sudden gleam of perception, he saw that though he had never 
told her anything of this, though it must have been a revelation of 
wonder to her, yet that she had not burst forth into any outcries of 
astonishment, or asked any compromising questions, or done any- 
thing to betray him. 

His heart went forth to Frances with an infinite tenderness. He 
had not been a doting father to her; he had even— being himself 
what the world calls a clever man, much above her mental level — 
felt himself to condescend a little, and almost upbraided heaven for 
giving him so ordinary a little girl. And Constance, it was easy to 


44 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

see, was a brilliant creature, accustomed to take lier place in the 
world, fit to be any man’s companion. But the first result of this 
revelation was to reveal to him, as he had never seen it before, the 
modest and true little soul which had developed by his side witliout 
much notice from him, whom he had treated with such cruel want 
of confidence, to whom the shock of this evening’s disclosures must 
liave been so great, but who, even in the moment of discovery, 
shielded him. All this Avent through his mind with the utmost 
rapidity. He did not put his new-found child away from him; but 
there was less enthusiasm than Constance expected in the kiss he 
gave her. ‘ ‘ I am very glad to have you here, my dear, ’ ’ he said 
more coldly than pleased her. “ But wh}^, instead of Frances? You 
Avill be happier both of you for being together.” 

Constance did not disengage herself with any appearance of dis- 
appointment. She perceived, perhaps, that she was not to be so 
triumphant here as was usually her privilege. She relinquished 
her father’s arm after a minute, not too precipitately, and returned 
to her chair. ” I shall like it, as long as it is possible,” she said, “ It 
will be very nice for me having a father and sister, instead of a 
mother and brother. But you will find that mamma Avill not let 
you off. She likes to have a girl in the house. She will have her 
pound of flesh.” She threw herself back into her chair with a 
laugh. “ How quaint it is here; and how beautiful the view must 
be, and the mountains and the sea. I shall be very happy here — the 
world forgetting, by tlie world forgot — and with you, papa.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

” She has come to stay,” Frances said. 

“What?” cried Mariuccia making the small monosyllable sound 
as if it were the biggest word in her vocabulary. 

“She has come to stay. She is my sister; papa’s daughter as 
much as I am. She has come — home. ” Frances Avas a little uncer- 
tain about the word, and it was only “ a casa ” that she said — “ to 
the house, ’ ’ which means the same. 

Mariuccia thrcAv up her arms in astonishment. “ Then there has 
been another signorina all the time!” she cried. “ Figure to your- 
self that I have been Avith the padrone a dozen years, and I never 
heard of her before. ’ ’ 

“Papa does not talk very much about his concerns,” said 
Frances in her faithfulness. “ And AA^hat we liaA^e got to do is to 
make her very comfortable. She is A^ery pretty, don’t you think? 
Such beautiful blonde hair — and tall. I never shall be tail, I fear. 
They say she is like papa; but, as is natural, she is much more beau- 
tiful than papa. ’ ’ 

“ Beauty is as you find it,” said Mariuccia. “ Carina, no one 
will ever be so pretty^ as our own signorina to Domenito and me. 
What is the child doing? She is pulling the things off her oAvn bed. 
My angel, you have lost your good sense. Y^ou are fluttered and 
upset by this neAv arrival. The blue room aauII be verj-- good for the 
new young lady. Perhaps she Avill nol stay very long?” 

The wish Avas father to the thought. But Frances took no notice 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


45 


of the suggestion. She said briskly, going on with Tvliat she was 
doing; “She must have my room, Mariuccia. The blue room is 
quite nice; it will do very well for me; but I should like her to feel 
at home, not to think our house was bare and cold. The blue room 
would be rather naked, if we were to put her there to-night. It 
will not be naked for me; for, of course, I am used to it all, and 
know everything. But when Constance wakes to-morrow morning 
and looks round her, and wonders where she is — oh, how strange it 
all seems! I wish her to open her eyes upon things that are pretty, 
and to say to herself : ‘ What a delightful house papa has. What a 
nice room. I feel as if I had been here all my life.’ ” 

“ Constanza — is that her name? It is rather a common name — 
not distinguished, like our signorina’s. But it is very good for her, 
I have no doubt. And so you will give her your own room, that 
she may be fond of the house, and stay and supplant you? That is 
what will happen. The good one, the one of gold, gets pushed out 
of the way. I would not give her my room to make her love the 
house.” 

“ I think you would, Mariuccia.” / 

“No; I do not think so,” said Mariuccia, squaring herself with 
one arm akimbo. “ No; I do not deny that I would probably take 
some new things into the blue room, and put up curtains. But I am 
older than you are, and I have more sense. I would not do it. If 
she gets your room, she will get your place; and she will please 
everybody, and be admired, and my angel will be put out of the 
■way.” 

“I am such a horrid little wretch,” said Frances, “that I 
thought of that too. It "was mean, oh, so mean of me. She is pret- 
tier than I am; and taller; and — yes, of course, she must be older 
too, so you see it is her right.” 

“ Is she the eldest?” asked Mariuccia. 

Frances made a puzzled pause; but she would not let the woman 
divine that she did not know. “ Oh, yes; she must be the eldest. 
Come quick, Mariuccia; take all these things to the blue room; and 
now for your clean linen and everything that is nice and sweet. ’ ’ 

Mariuccia did what she was told, but with many objections. She 
carried on a running murmur of protest all the time. “ When there 
are changes in a family; when it is by the visitation of God, that is 
another matter. A son or a daughter who is in trouble, wdio has no 
other refuge; that is natural; there is nothing to say. But to remain 
away during a dozen years, and then to come back at a moment’s 
notice — nay, without even a moment’s notice — in the evening, whea 
all the beds are made up, and demand everything that is comfort- 
able. I have always thought that there was a great deal to be said 
for the poor young signorino in the Bible, he who had always 
stayed at home when his brother was amusing himself. Carina, you 
know what I mean.” 

“ I have thought of that too,” said Frances. “ But my sister is 
not a prodigal; and papa has never done anything for her. It is 
all quite different. When we know each other better, it will be de- 
lightful always to have a companion, Mariuccia— think how pleas- 
ant it will be always to have a companion. I wonder if she will like 
my pictures? Now, don’t you think the room looks very pretty? 


46 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


I always thought it was a pretty room. Leave the persianis open, 
that she may see the sea; and in the morning, don’t forget to come 
in and close them, before the sun gets hot. I think that wdll do 
now.” 

“ Indeed, 1 hope it will do — after all the trouble you have taken. 
And I hope the young lady is worthy of it. But, my angel, what 
shall I do when I come in to wake her? Does she expect that I can 
talk her language to her? No, no. And she will know nothing; 
she will not even be able to say ‘ Good-morning. ’ ’ ’ 

“ I hope so. But if not, you must call me tirst, that is all,” said 
Frances cheerfully, “ Now, don’t go to bed just yet; perhaps she 
will like something — some tea; or perhaps a little supper; or — I 
never asked if she had dined.” 

Mariuccia regarded this possibility with equanimity. She was 
not afraid of a girl’s appetite. But she made a grimace at the 
mention of the tea. “It is good when one has a cold; oh, yes,” 
she said; “ but to drink it at all times, as you do! If she wants any- 
thing, it will be a great deal better to give her a sirup, or a little red 
wine.” 

Frances detained Mariuccia as long as she could, and lingered 
herself still longer, after all was ready in the room. She did not 
know how to go back to the drawing-room, w^here she had left the 
two together, to say to each other, no doubt, many things that could 
be better said in her absence. There w^as no jealousy, only delicacy, 
in this; and she had given up her pretty room 1o her sister, and car- 
ried her indispensable belongings to the bare one, with the purest 
pleasure in making Constance comfortable. Constance! whom an 
hour ago she had never heard of, and who now was one of them, 
nearer to her than anybody, except her father. But all this being 
done, she had the strangest difficulty in going back, in thrusting 
herself, as imagination said, between them, and interrupting their 
talk. To think that it should be such a tremendous matter to re- 
turn to that familiar room, in which the greater part of her life had 
been passed! It felt like another w^orld into wffiich she was about to 
enter, full of unknown elements and conditions which she did not 
understand. She had not known what it was to be shy in the very 
limited society she had ever known; but she was shy now, feeling 
as if she had not courage to put her hand upon the handle of the 
door. The familiar creak and jar of it as it opened seemed to her 
like noisy instruments announcing her approach, which stopped the 
conversation, as she had divined, and made her father and her sis- 
ter look up with a little start. Frances could have wished to sink 
through the floor, to get rid of her own being altogether, as she saw 
them both pve this slight start. Constance was leaning upon the 
table, the light of the lamp shining full upon her face, with the air 
of being in the midst of an animated narrative, which she stopped 
when Frances entered; and Mr. Waring had been listening with a 
smile. He turned half round and held out his hand to the timid 
girl behind him. “Come, Frances,” he said; “you have been a 
long time making your preparations. Have you been bringing out 
the fairest robe for your sister?” It was odd how the parable — 
which had no signification in their circumstances — haunted them all. 

“ Your room is quite ready whenever you please. And would 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


47 



“ Is she the housekeeper? How odd! Do you look after every- 
thing? Dear me! I am afraid, in that case, I shall make a very ix)or 
substitute for Frances, papa.” 

“ It is not necessary to think of that,” he said hastily, giving her 
a quick glance. 

Frances saw it, with another involuntary, quickly suppressed 
pang. Of course, there would be things that Constance must be 
warned not to say. And yet it felt as if papa had deserted her and 
gone over to the other side. She had not the remotest conception 
■what the warning referred to, or what Constance meant. 

I dined at the hotel,” Constance went on, “ with those people 
whom I traveled with. I suppose you will have to call and be civil. 
They were quite delighted to think that they would know somebody 
at Bordighera — some of the inhabitants. Yes, tea, if you please. 
And then I think I shall go to bed; for twenty-four hours in the 
train is very fatiguing, besides the excitement. Don’t you think 
Frances is very much like mamma? There is a little way she has of 
setting her chin. Look there! That is mamma all over. I think 
they Avould get on together very well; indeed, I feel sure of it.” 
And again there was a significant look exchanged, which once more 
went like a sting to Frances’ heart. 

“ Your sister has been telling me,” said Mr. Waring, with a little 
hesitation, ” of a great many people I used to know. You must be 
very much surprised, my dear; but I will take an opportunity — ” 
He was confused before her, as if he had been before a judge. He 
gave her a look which was half shame and half gratitude, sentiments 
both entirely out of place between him and Frances. She could not 
bear that he should look at her so. 

“Yes, papa,” she said as easily as she could; “ I know you must 
have a great deal to talk of. If Constance will give me her keys, I 
will unpack her things for her.” Both the girls instinctively, oddly, 
addressed each other through their father, the only link between 
them, hesitating a little at the familiarity which nature made neces- 
sary between them, but which had no other warrant. 

“Oh! isn’t there a maid who can do it?” Constance cried, open- 
ing her eyes. 

The evening seemed long to Frances, though it was not long. 
Constance trifled over the tea— which Mariuccia made with much 
reluctance — for half an hour. But she talked all the time; and as 
her talk was of people Frances had never heard of, and was mingled 
with little allusions to what had passed before : “ I told you about 
him;” “You remember, we were talking of them;” wuth a con- 
stant recurrence of names which to Frances meant nothing at all, it 
seemed long to her. 

She sat down at the table and took her knitting, and listened and 
tried to look as if she took an interest. She did indeed take a great 
interest; no one could have been more eager to enter without arriere- 
pensee into the new life thus unfolded before her; and sometimes 
she was amused and could laugh at the stories Constance -vvas tell- 
ing; but her chief feeling was that sense of being entirely “ out of 


48 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


it ” — having nothing to do with it, which makes people who do not 
understand society feel like so many ghosts standing on the margin, 
knowing nothing. The feeling was strange, and very forlorn. It 
is an unpleasant experience even for those who are strangers, to 
whom it is a passing incident ; but as the speaker was her sister and 
the listener her father, Frances could not help feeling forlorn. 
Generally in the evening conversation flagged between them. He 
would have his hook, and Frances sometimes had a book too, or a 
drawing upon which she could work, or at least her knitting. She 
had felt that the silence which reigned in the room was not what 
ought to be. It was not like the talk which was supposed to go on 
in all the novels she had ever read where the people were nice. And 
sometimes she attempted to entertain her father with little incidents 
in the life of their poor neighbors, or things which Mariuccia had 
told her; but he listened benevolently, with his finger between the 
leaves of his book, or even without closing his book, looking up at 
her over the leaves — only out of kindness to her, not because he 
was interested; and then silence would fall on them, a silence which 
was very sweet to Frances, in the midst of which her own little 
stream of thoughts flowed very continuously, but which now and 
then she was struck to the heart to think must be very dull for papa. 

But to-night it was not dull for him. She listened, and said to 
herself this was the way to make conversation; and laughed when- 
ever she could, and followed every little gesture of her sister’s with 
admiring eyes. But at the end, Frances, though she would not 
aclmowledge it to herself, felt that she had not been amused. She 
thought the people in the village were just as interesting. But then 
she was not so clever as Constance, and could not do them justice 
in the same way. 

“ And now I am going to bed,"’ Constance said. She rose up in 
an instant with a rapid movement, as if the thought had only just 
struck her, and she obeyed the impulse at once. There was a free- 
dom about all her movements which troubled and captivated 
I'rances. She had been leaning half over the table, her sleeves, 
which were a little wide, falling back from her arms, now leaning^ 
her chin in the hollow of one hand, now supporting it with both, 
putting her elbows wherever she pleased. Frances herself had been 
trained by Mariuccia to very great decorum in respect to attitudes. 
If she did furtively now and then lean an elbow upon the table, she 
was aware that it was wrong all the time; and as for legs, she knew 
it was only men who were permitted to cross them, or to do any- 
thing save sit with two feet equal to each Other upon the floor. But 
Constance cared for none of these rules. She rose up abruptly 
(Mariuccia would have said, as if something had stung her) almost 
before she had finished what she was saying. ‘ ‘ Show me my room, 
please, ’ ’ she said, and yawned. She yawned quite freely, naturally, 
without any attempt to conceal or to apologize for it as if it had been 
an accident. Frances could not help being shocked, yet neither 
could she help laughing with a sort of pleasure in this breach of all 
rules. But Constance only stared, and did not in the least under- 
stand why she should laugh. 

“ Where have you put your sister?” Mr. W’'aring asked. 

X have put her — in the room next to yours, papa; between your 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 49 

room and mine, you know : for I am in the blue room now. There 
she will not feel strange; she will have people on each side.” 

“ That is to say you have given her — ” 

It was Frances’ turn now to give a warning glance. “ The room 
I thought she would like best,” she said with a soft but decisive 
tone. She too had a little imperious way of her own. It was so 
soft, that a stranger would not have found it out; but in the Palazzo 
they were all acquainted with it, and no one — not even Mariuccia — 
found it possible to say a word after this small trumpet had 
sounded. Mr. Waring accordingly was silenced, and made no fur- 
ther remark. He went with his daughters to the door, and kissed 
the cheek which Constance held lightly to him. ” I shall see you 
again, papa,” Frances said in that same little determined voice. 

Mr. Waring did not make any reply, but shrunk a little aside, to 
let her pass. He looked like* a man who was afraid. She had 
spared him; she had not betrayed the ignorance in which he had 
brought her up; but now the moment of reckoning was near, and 
he was afraid of Frances. He went back into the salone, and 
walked up and down with a restlessness 'which was natural enough,, 
considering how all the embers of his life had been raked up by this 
unexpected event. He had lived in absolute quiet for fourteen long 
years a strange life; a life wdiich might have been supposed to be 
impossible for a man still in the heyday of his strength; but yet, as 
it appeared, a life which suited him, which he preferred to. others 
more natural. To settle down in an Italian village with a little 
girl of four for his sole companion — when he came to think of it, 
nothing could be more unnatural, more extraordinary; and yet he 
had liked it well enough, as well as he could have liked anything at 
that crisis of his fate. He was the kind of man who, in other cir- 
cumstances, in another age, would have made himself a monk, and 
spent his existence very placidly in illuminating manuscripts. He 
had done something as near this as is possible to an Englishman, 
not a Roman Catholic, of the nineteenth century. Unfortunately, 
Waring had no ecclesiastical tendencies, or even in the nineteenth 
century he might have found out for himself some pseudo-monkery 
in which he could have been happy. As it was, he had retired with 
his little girl, and on the whole had been comfortable enough. But 
now the little girl had grown up, and required to have various things 
accounted for; and the other individuals who had claims upon him, 
whom he thought he had shaken off altogether, had turned up 
again, and had to be dealt 'v\ifth. The monk had an easy time of it 
in comparison. He who has but himself to think of may manage 
himself, if he has good luck; but the responsibility of others on 
your shoulders is a terrible drawback to tranquillity. A little girlt 
that seemed the simplest of all things. It had never occurred lo 
him that she would form a link by which all his former burdens 
might be drawn back; or that she, more 'W'onderful still, should 
ever arise, and demand to know why. But both of these impossible 
things had happened. 

'V\^ring walked about the salone. He opened the glass door and 
stepped out into the loggia into the tranquil shining of the moon, 
which lit up all the blue of the sea, and kindled little silver lamps 
^1 over the quivering palms. How quiet it was! and yet that tran- 


50 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


quil nature lying unmoved, taking whatever came of good or evil, 
did harm in a far more colossal w^ay than any man could do. The 
sea, then looking so mild, would suddenly rise up and bring havoc 
and destruction worse than an army; yet next day smile again, and 
throw its spray into the faces of the children, and lie like a beauti- 
ful thing under the light. But a man could not do this. A man 
had to give an account of all that he had done, whether it was good 
or whether it was evil — if not to God, which on the whole was the 
easiest — for God knew all about it, how little harm had been in- 
tended, how little anything had been intended, how one mistake 
involved another; if not to God — why, to some one harder to face 
— perhaps to one’s little girl. 

He came back from the loggia and the moonlight and nature, 
which, all of them, were so indifferent to what was happening to 
him, with a feeling that the imperfect human lamp which so easily 
got out of gear — as easily as a man — ^was a more appropriate light 
for his disturbed soul; and met Frances with her browm eyes w^ait- 
ing for him at the door. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

It is not because of this only, papa -I wanted before to speak to 
you. I was waiting in the loggia for you — when Constance came. ” 
“ What did you wani, Frances? Oh, I quite acknowledge that 
you have a right to inquire. I hoped, perhaps, I might be spared 
to-night; I am rather exhausted — to-night.” 

Frances dropped the hand which she had laid upon his arm. ‘ ‘ It 
shall be exactly as you please, papa. I seem to know a great deal — 
oh, a great deal more than I knew at dinner. I don’t think I am 
the same person; and I thought it might save us all, if you would 
tell me — as much as you think I ought to know.” 

She had sat down in her usual place, in her careful little modest 
pose, a little stiff, a little prim — the training of Mariuccia. After 
Constance, there was something in the attitude of Frances which 
made her father smile, though he was in no mood for smiling; and 
it was clear that he could not, that he ought not to, escape. He 
would not sit down, however, and meet her eye. He stood by the 
table for a few minutes, with his eyes upcn the books, turning 
them over, as if he were looking for something. At last he said, but 
without looking up: “There is nothing very dreadful to tell; no 
guilty secret, though you may suppose so. Your mother and I — ” 
“ Then I have really a mother, an(>she is living?” the girl cried. 
He looked at her for a moment. “I forgot that for a girl of your 
age that means a great deal — I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps if you 
knew — Yes; you have got a mother, and she is living. I suppose 
that seems a very w^onderful piece of news?” 

Frances did not say anything. • The water came into her eyes. 
Her heart beat loudly, yet softly, against her young bosom. She 
had known it, so that she was not surprised. The surprise had been 
broken by Constance’s careless talk, by the wonder, the doubt, the 
sense of impossibility, which had gradually yielded to a conviction 
that it must be so. Her feeling was that she would like to go now, 
without delay, without asking any more questions, to her mother. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 51 

iler mother! and he hadn’t thought before how much that meant 
to a girl — of her age! 

Mr. Waring was a little disconcerted by having no answer. Of 
course it meant a great deal to a girl; but still, not so much as to 
make her incapable of replying. He felt a little annoyed, disturbed, 
perhaps jealous, as Frances herself had been. It was with diffi- 
culty that he resumed again; but it had to be done. 

“ Your mother and I,” he said, taking up the books again, open- 
ing and shutting them, looking at the title-page now of one, now of 
another, “ did not get on very well. I don’t know who was in 
fault — probably both. She had been married before. She had a 
son, whom you hear Constance speak of as Markham. Markham 
has been at the bottom of all the trouble. He drove me out of my 
senses when he was a boy. Now he is a man, so far as I can make 
out, it is he that has disturbed our peace again — hunted us up, and 
sent Constance here. If you ever meet Markham — and of course 
now you are sure to meet him — beware ol him. ’ ’ Here he made a 
pause again, and looked with great seriousness akthe book in his 
hand, turning the leaf to finish a sentence which was continued on 
the next page. 

“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Frances; “I am afraid lam 
very stupid. What relation is Markham to me?” 

He looked at her for a moment, then threw down the book with 
some violence on the table, as if it were the offender. “ He is your 
step-brother,” he said. 

‘‘My — brother? Then I have a brother too?” After a little 
pause she added: “ It is very wonderful, papa, to come into a new 
world like this all at once. I want — to draw my breath.” 

“It is my fault that it comes upon you all at once. I never 
thought — You were a very small child when I brought you away. 
You forget them all, as was natural. I did not at first know how 
entirely a child forgets; and then — then it seemed a pity to disturb 
your mind, and perhaps set you longing for — what it was impossi- 
ble for you to obtain.” 

It surprised him a little that Frances did not breathe a syllable 
of reproach. She said nothing. In her imagination she was looking 
back on these years, wondering how it would have been had she 
known. Would life ever be the same, now that she did know? The 
world seemed to open up round her, so much greater, wider, more 
full than she had thought of. She had not thought much on the 
subject. Life in Bordighera was more limited even than life in an 
English village. The fact’ that she did not belong to the people 
among whom she had spent all these years, made a difference; and 
her father’s recluse habits, the few people he cared to know, the. 
stagnation of his life, made a greater difference still. Frances had 
scarcely felt it until that meeting with the Mannerings, which put 
so many vague ideas into her mind. A child does not naturally 
inquire into the circumstances which have surrounded it all its life. 
It was natural to her to live in this retired place, to see nobody, ta 
make amusements and occupations for herself; to know nobody 
more like herself than Tasie Durant. Had she even possessed any 
girl-friends living the natural life of youth, that might have inspired 
a question or two. But she knew ‘no girls — except Tasie, wlioset 


52 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


girlhood was a sort of fossil, and who might almost have been the 
mother of Frances. She saw indeed the village girls, but it did 
not occur to her to compare herself with them. Familiar as she 
was with all their ways, she was still ^ifoi'estiere, one of the barbar- 
ous people — English — a word which explains every difference. 
Frances did not quite know in what the peculiarity and eccentricity 
of the English consisted; but she, too, recognized with all simplicity 
that, being English, she was different. Now it came suddenly to. 
her mind that the difference was not anything generic and general, 
but that it was her own special circumstances that had been unlike 
all the rest. There had been a mother all the time; another girl, a 
sister, like herself. It made her brain whirl. 

She sat quite silent, thinking it all over, not perceiving her 
father’s embarrassment, thinking less of him, indeed, than of all 
the wonderful new things that seemed to crowd about her. She 
did not blame him. She was not, indeed, thinking enough of him 
to blame him; besides that her mind was not sufficiently developed 
for retrospection. As she had taken him all her life without 
examination, she continued to take him. He was her father; that 
was enough. It did not occur to her to ask herself whether what 
he had done was right or wrong. Only, it was all very strange. 
The old solid earth had gone from under her feet, and the old 
order of things had been overthrown. She was looking out upon a 
world not realized — a spectator of something like the throes of crea- 
tion, seeing the new landscape tremble and roll into place, the 
heights and hollows all changing; there was a great deal of excite- 
ment in it, both pain and pleasure. It occupied her so fully, that 
he fell back into a secondary place. 

But this did not occur to Waring. He had not realized that it 
could be possible. He felt himself the center of the system in which 
his little daughter lived, and did not understand how she could ig- 
nore him. He thought her silence, the silence of amazemem and 
excitement and of that curious spectatorship, was the silence of 
reproach, and that her mind was full of a sense of wrong, which 
only duty kept in check. He felt himself on his trial before her. 
Having said all that he had to say, he remained silent, expecting 
her response. If she had given vent to an indignant exclamation, 
he would have Veen relie v^; he would have allowed that she had a 
right to be indignant. But her silence was more than he could l)ear. 
He searched through the recesses of his own thoughts; but for the 
moment he could not find any further excuse for himself. He had 
done it for the best. Probably she would not see that. Waring was 
well enough acquainted with the human mind to know that every 
individual sees such a question from his or her own point of view, 
and was prepared to find that she would be unable to perceive what 
was so plain to him. But still he was aware that he had done it for 
the best. After a while the silence became so irksome to him that 
he felt compelled to break it and resume his explanation. If she 
would not say anything, tliere were a number of things which he 
might say. 

“ It is a pity,” he said, “ that it lias all broken upon you so sud- 
denly. If 1 ever could have divined that Constance would have 
taken such a step— To tell you the truth, I have never realized 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. ' 53 

Constance at all,” he added with an impulse toward the daughter 
he knew. ‘ ‘ She was of course a mere child — to see her so inde- 
pendent, and with so distinct a will of her own, is verj'' bewilder- 
ing. I assure you, Frances, if it is wonderful to you, it is scarcely 
less wonderful to me.” 

^ There was something in the tone that made her lift her eyes to 
him; and to see him stand there so embarrassed, so subdued, so 
much unlike the father, who, though veiy kind and tender, had al- 
M ways been perhaps a little condescending, patronizing, toward the 
girl, whom he scarcely recognized as an independent entity, went 
to lier heart. She could not tell him not to be frightened; not to 
look at her with that guilty, apologetic look, which altogether re- 
versed their ordinary relationship; but it added a pang to her be- 
wilderment. She asked hastily, by way of concealing this uncom- 
fortable change, a question which she thought he would have no 
difficulty in answering: “Is Constance much older than 1 am, 
papa?” 

He gave a sort of furtive smile, as if he had no right to smile in 
the circumstances. “ I don’t wonder at j^our question. She has 
seen a great deal more of the world. But if there is a minute oi’ 
two between 5 "ou, I don’t know which has it. There is no elder or 
younger in the case. You are twins, though no one would 
think so.” 

This gave Frances a further shock, though why, it would be im- 
possible to say. The blood rushed to her face. “ She must think 
me — a very poor little thing,” she said in a hurried tone. “ I never 
knew — I have no friend except Tasie — to show me what girls might 
be.” The thought mortified her in an extraordinary way; it 
brought a sudden gush of soft tears, tears quite different from those 
which had welled to her eyes when he told her of her mother. Con- 
stance, who was so different, would despise her — Constance, who 
knew exactly all about it, and that Frances was as old, perhaps a 
few minutes older than she. It is always difficult to divine what 
form pride will take. This was the manner in which it affected 
Frances. The same age; and j^et the one an accomplished woman, 
judging for herself; and the other not much more than a child. 

“You do yourself injustice,” said Mr. Waring, somewhat re- 
habilitated by the mortification of Frances. “ Nobody could think 
you a poor little thing. You have not the same knowledge of the 
world. Constance has been very differently brought up. I think 
my training a great deal better than what she has had,” he added 
quickly, with a mingled desire to cheer and restore self-confidence 
to Frances, and to reassert himself after his humiliation. He felt 
what he said, and yet, as was natural, he said a little more than he 
felt. “ I must tell you,” he said in this new impulse, “ that your 
mother is — a much more important person than I am. She is a great 
deal richer. The marriage was supposed to be much to my advan- 
tage.” 

There was a smile on his face, which Frances, looking up sud- 
denly, warned by a certain change of tone, did not like to see. She 
kept her eyes upon him instinctively, she could not tell why, with 
a look which had a certain influence upon him, though he did not 
well understand it either. It meant that the unknown woman of 


54 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


whom he spoke was the girl’s mother — her mother — one of whom 
no unbefitting word was to be said. It checked him in a quite 
curious, unexpected way. When he had spoken of her, which he 
had done very rarely since they parted, it had been with a sense 
that he was free to characterize her as he thought she deserved. 
But here he was stopped short. That very evening he had said 
things to Constance of her mother which in a moment he felt that 
he dared not say to Frances. The sensation was a very strange 
one. He made a distinct pause, and then he said hurriedly “ You 
must not for a moment suppose that there w^as anything wrong;, 
there is no story that you need be afraid of hearing — nothing, nei- 
ther on her side or mine — nothing to be ashamed of. ’ ’ 

All at once Frances grew very pale; her eyes opened wide; she 
gazed at him with speechless horror. The idea was altogether new 
to her artless mind. It flashed through his that Constance would 
not have been at all surprised; that probably she would have 
thought it ‘ ‘ nice of him ’ ’ to exonerate his w^ife from all moral 
shortcoming. The holy ignorance of the other brought a sensation 
of shame to Waring, and at the same time a sensation of pride. 
Nothing could more clearly have proved the superiority of his train- 
ing, She would have felt no consternation, only relief at this as* 
surance, if she had been all her life in her mother’s hands. 

“It is a great deal to say, however, though you are too inex- 
perienced to know. The whole thing was incompatibility — incom- 
patibility of temper, and of ideas, and of tastes, and of fortune 
even. I could not, you may suppose, accept advantages purchased 
with any predecessor’s money, or take the good of his rank through 
my wife; and she would not come down in the world to my means, 
and to my name. It was an utter mistake altogether. We should 
have understood each other beforehand. It was impossible that we 
could get on. But that was all. There was probably more talk 
about it than if there had been really more to talk about.’’ 

Frances rose up with a little start. “ I think, perhaps,” she said,. 
“ I don’t want you to tell me any more.” 

“ Well — perhaps you are right.” But he W’as startled by her 
quick movement. “ I did not mean to say anything that could 
shock you. If you were to hear anything at all, the truth is what 
you must hear. But you must not blame me overmuch, Frances. 
Your very impatience of what I have been saying will explain to 
you wdiy I thought that to say nothing — as long as I could help it — 
was the best.” 

Her hand trembled a little as she lighted her candle; but she 
made no comment. ‘ ‘ Good-night, papa. To-morrow it will all 
seem different. Everything is strange to-night.” 

He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into the 
little serious faee, the face that had never been so serious before.. 
“ Don’t think any worse of me, Frances, than you can help,” 

Her eyes opened wider with astonishment. “ Think of you, 
worse — Eat, papa, I am not thinking of you at all,” she said 
simply; “lam thinking of it,'’ 

Waring had gone through a number of depressing and humbling 
experiences during the course of the evening; but this w^as the un- 
kindest of all— and it was so natural. Frances was no critic. She 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 55 

was not thinking of his conduct, which was the first thing in his 
mind, but of IT, the revelation whicli had been made to her. He 
might have perceived that, or divined it, if he had not been occupied 
by this idea, which did not occupy her at all — the thought of how 
he personally had come through the business. He gave a little 
faltering laugh at himself as he stooped and kissed her. “ That’s all 
right,” he said. “ Good-night; but don’t let it interfere with your 
sleep. To-morrow everything will look different, as you say.” 

Frances turned away with her light in her hand; but before she 
had reached the door, returned again. “ I think I ought to tell 
you, papa, that I am sure the Durants know. They said a number 
of strange things to me yesterday, which I think I understand now. 
If you don’t mind, I would rather let them suppose that I knew all 
the time; otherwise, it looks as if you thought you could not trust 
me.” 

“ I could trust you ” — he said with a little fervor, ” my dear 
child, my dear little girl, I would trust you with my life.” 

Was there a faint smile in the little girl’s limpidr^mple eyes? He 
thought so, and it disconcerted him strangely. She made no re- 
sponse to that protestation, but with a little nod of her head, went 
away. Waring sat down at the table again and began to think it 
all over from the beginning. He was sore and aching, like a man 
who has fallen from a height. He had fallen from the pedestal on 
which, to Frances, he had stood all these years. She might not be 
aware of it even, but he was. And he had fallen from those Elys- 
ian fields of peace in which he had been dwelling for so long. They 
had not, perhaps, seemed very Elysian while he was secure of their 
possession. They had been monotonous in their stillness, and 
wearied his soul. But now that he looked back upon them, a new 
cycle having begun, they seemed to him like the very house of 
peace. He had not done anything to forfeit this tranquillity, and 
yet it was over, and he stood once more on the edge of an agitated 
and disturbed life. He was a man who could bear monotony, who 
liked his own way, yet liked that bondage of hajiit which is as hard 
as iron to some souls. He liked to do the same things at the same 
time day after day, and to be uifdisturbed in doing them. But now 
all his quiet was over, Constance would have a thousand require- 
ments such as Frances had never dreamed of; and her brother no 
doubt would soon turn up, that step-brother whom Waring had 
never been able to tolerate even when he was a child. She might 
even come, herself — who could tell? 

When this thought crossed his mind, he got up hastily and left 
the salone, leaving the lamp burning, as Domenico found it next 
morn, to his consternation — a symbol of Chaos come again — burn- 
ing in the daylight. Mr. Waring almost fled to his room and 
locked his door in the horror of that suggestion. And this was not 
only because the prospect of such a visit disturbed him beyond 
measure, but because he had not yet made a clean breast of it. 
Frances did not yet know all. 

Frances for her part went to the blue room, and opened the persi- 
ants, and sat looking^out upon the moonlight for some time before 
she went to bed. The room was bare; she missed her pictures, 
which Constance had taken no notice of — the Madonna that had 


56 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


been above her head for so many years, and which had vaguely 
appeared to her as a symbol of the mother wdio had never existed in 
her life. Now there seemed less need for the Madonna. The bare 
walls had pictures all over them — pictures of a new life. In imagina- 
tion, no one is shy or nervous or strange. She left the new figures- 
move about her freely, and delighted herself with familiar pictures- 
of them and the changes that must accompany them. She w^as not, 
like her father, afraid of changes. She thought of the new people, 
the new combinations, the quickened life, and the thought made 
her smile. They would come, and she would make the house gay 
and bright to receive them. Perhaps some time, surrounded by thi& 
new family, that belonged to her, she might even be taken “ home.’’ 
The thought was delightful, notwithstanding the thiill of excite-, 
ment in it. But still there was something which Frances did not 
know. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ What is this I hear about Waring?” said General Gaunt, w^alk- 
ing out upon the loggia, where the Durants were sitting,'on the 
same memorable afternoon on which all that has been above related 
occurred. The general was dressed in loosely-fitting li^ht- colored 
clothes. It was one of the recommendations of the Riviera to him 
that he could wear out there all his old Indian clothes, whicli 
would have been useless to him at home. He was a very tall old 
man, very yellow, nay, almost greenish in the complexion, ex- 
tremely spare, with a fine old wdiite mustache, which had an im- 
mense effect upon his brown face. The well-worn epigram might 
be adapted in his case to say that nobody ever was so fierce as the 
general looked; and yet he was at bottom rather a mild old man, 
and had never hurt anybody, except the Sepoys in the mutiny, all 
his life. His head was covered with a broad light felt hat, which, 
soft as it was, toq^k an aggressive cock when he put it on. He held 
his gloves dangling from his hand with the air of having been in 
too much haste to put them to thdlr proper use. And his step, as he 
stepped off the/6arpet upon the marble of the loggia, sounded like 
that of an alert officer who has just heard that the enemy has made a 
reconnaisance in force two miles off, and that there is no time to- 
lose. “ What is this I hear about Waring?” he said. 

“ Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs. Durant. 

“It is a most remarkable story,” said his Reverence, shaking: 
his head. 

“But what is it?” asked the general. “I found Mrs. Gaunt 
almost crying when I went in. What she said was : ‘ Charles, we 
have been nourishing a viper in our bosoms. ’ I am not addicted 
. to metaphor, and I insisted upon plain English; and then it all 
came out. She told me Waring was an impostor, and had been 
taking us all in; that some old friend of his had been here, and had 
told you. Is that true?” 

“ My dear!” said Mr. Durant in a tone of remonstrance. 

“Well, Henry! you never said it was to be kept a secret. It 
could not possibly be kept a secret— so few of us here, and all sa 
intimate.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


57 


Then he is an impostor?” said General Gaunt. 

“ Oh, my dear general, that’s too strong a word. Henry, you 
_ had better tell the general jmur own way.” 

The old clergyman had been shaking his head all the time. He 
was dying to tell all that he knew; but he could not but improve 
the occasion. ‘‘Oh, ladies, ladies!” he said, “when there is any- 
thing to be told, the best of women is not to be trusted. But, gen- 
eral, our poor friend is no impostor. He never said he was a 
widower. ’ ’ 

“It’s fortunate we’ve none of us girls” — the general began; 
then with a start: “ I forgot Miss Tasie; but she’s a girl — a girl in 
ten thousand, ’ he added with a happy inspiration. Tasie, "who was 
still seated behind the tea- cups, gave him a smile in reply. 

“ Poor dear Mr. Waring,” she said, ” whether he is a widower 
or has a wife, it does not matter much. Nobody can call Mr. 
Waring a tiirt. He might be any one’s grandfather from his man- 
ner. I can not see that it matters a bit.” 

“Not so far as we are concerned, thank Heaven, ” said her 
mother with the air of one whose dear child has escaped a danger. 
■“ But 1 don’t think it is quite respectable for one of our small com- 
munity to have a, wife alive and never to let any one know. ’ ’ 

“ I understand, a most excellent woman; besides being a person 
of rank,” said Mr. Durant. “It has disturbed me very much, 
though, happily, as my wife says, from no private motive.” Here 
the good man paused, and gave vent to a sigh of thankfulness, 
establishing the impression that his ingenuous Tasie had escaped as 
by a miracle from Waring’s wiles; and then he continued: “I 
think some one should speak to him on the subject. He ought to 
understand that now it is known, public opinion requires — Some 
one should tell him — ” 

“ There is no one so tit as a clergyman,” the general said. 

“ That is true, perhaps, in the abstract; but with our poor friend — 
There are some men who will not take advice from a clergyman.” 

“ Oh, Henry! do him justice. He has never shown anything but 
respect to you.” 

“.I should say that a man of the world, like the general — ” 

“Oh, not I,”. cried the general, getting up hurriedly. “No, 
thank you; I never interfere with any man’s affairs. That’s your 
business. Padre. Besides I have no daughter — whether he is mar- 
ried or not is nothing to me. ’ ’ 

“Nor tons. Heaven be praised!” said Mrs. Durant; and Ihen 
she added: “It is not for ourselves; it is for poor little Frances, a 
girl that has never known a mother’s care! How much better for 
her to be with her mother, and properly introduced into society, 
than living in that huggermugger way without education, without 
companions. If it were not for Tasie, the child would never see a 
creature near her own age. ’ ’ 

“And I am much older than Frances,” said Tasie, rather to 
heighten the hardship of the situation than from any sense that this 
was true. 

“ Decidedly the Padre ought to talk to him,” said the Anglo-In- 
dian. “ He ought to be made to feel that everybody at the Station- 
Wife all right, do you know? Bless me! If the wife is. all right. 


58 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


wliat does the man mean? Why can’t they quarrel peaceably, and 
keep up appearances, as we all do!”. 

” Oh no? not all; we never quarrel.” 

‘ ‘ Not for a long time, my love. ’ ’ 

Henry, you may trust to my memory. Not for about thirty 
years. We had a little disagreement then about where we were to go 
for the summer. Oh, I remember it well — the agony it cost me I 
Don’t say ‘ as we all do,’ general, for it would not be true.” 

“You are a pair of old turtle-doves,” quoth the general. “ All 
the more reason why you should talk to him. Padre. Tell him he’s 
come among us on false pretenses, not knowing the damage he 
might have done. I always thought he was a queer hand to have 
the education of a little girl.” 

” He taught her Latin; and that woman of theirs, Mariuccia, 
taught her to knit. That’s all she knows. And her mother all the 
time in such a tine position, able to do anything for her. Oh, it is 
of Frances I think most.” 

“ It is quite evident,” said the general,.” that Mr. Durant must 
interfere.” 

” I think it very likely I shall do no good. A man of the world, 
a man like that — ’ ’ 

” There is no such great harm about the man.” 

‘ ‘ And he is very good to Frances, ’ ’ said Tasie, almost under her 
breath. 

” I dare say he meant no harm,” said the general, ” if that is all. 
Only, he should be warned; and if anything can be done for 
Frances — It is a pity she should see nobody, and never have a 
chance of establishing herself in life.” 

“She ought to be introduced into society,” said Mrs. Durant. 
” As for establishing herself in life, that is in the hands of providence, 
general. It is not to be supposed that such an idea ever enters into 
a girl’s mind — unless it is put there, which is so often the case.” 

“The general means,” said Tasie, “that seeing people would 
make her mgre tit to be a. companion for her papa. Frances is a 
dear girl; but it is quite true she is wanting in conversation. They 
often sit a whole^evening together and scarcely speak.” 

“ She is a nice little thing,” said the general energetically; “ I al- 
ways thought so; and never was at a dance, I suppose, or a junket- 
ing of any description in her life. To be sure, we are all old duffers 
in this place. The Padre should interfere.” 

“ If I could see it was my duty,” said Mr. Durant. 

“ I know what you mean,” said General Gaunt. “ I’m not to 
fond of interference myself. But when a man has concealed his 
antecedents, and they have been found out. And then the little 
girl—” 

“ It is Frances I am thinking of,” explained Mr. Durant. 

It was at last settled among them that il was clearly the clergy- 
man’s business to interfere. He had been tolerably certain to begin 
with; but he liked the moral support of what he called a consensus 
of opinion. Mr. Durant was not so reluctant to interfere as he pro- 
fessed to be. He had not much scope for those social duties which, 
he was of opinion, were not the least important of a clergyman’s 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


59 


functions; and though there was a little excitement in the uncer- 
tainty from. Sunday to Sunday how many people would be at 
church, what the collection would be, and other varying circum- 
stances, yet the life of the clergyman at Bordighera was monoto- 
nous, and a little variety was welcome. In other chaplaincies which 
Mr. Durant had held, he had come in contact with various romances 
of real life. These were still the days of gaming, when every Ger- 
man bath had its tapis vert and its little group of tragedies. But the 
Biviera was very tranquil, and Bordighera had just been found out 
by the invalid and the pleasure-seeker. It was monotonous: there 
had been few deaths, even among the visitors, which are always 
varieties in their way for the clergyman, and often are the means 
of making acquaintances both useful and agreeable to himself and 
his family. But as yet there had not even been many deaths. This 
gave great additional excitement to what is always exciting for a 
small community, the cropping up under their very noses, in their 
own immediate circle, of a mystery, of a discovery which afforded 
boundless opportunity for talk. The first thing naturally that had 
affected Mr. and Mrs. Durant was the miraculous escape of Tasie, 
to whom Mr. Waring mipht have made himself agreeable, and who 
might have lost her peace of mind, for anything that could be said to 
the contrary. They said to each other that it was a hair-breadth es- 
cape; although it had not occurred previously to any one that any 
sort of mutual attraction between Mr. Waring and Tasie was pos- 
sible. 

And then the other aspects 'of the case became apparent. Mr. 
Durant felt now that to pass it over, to say nothing about the matter, 
to allow Waring to suppose that everything was as it had always 
been, was impossible. He and his wife had decided this without 
the intervention of General Gaunt; but when the general appeared — 
the only other permanent pillar of society in Bordighera — then there 
arose that consensus which made further steps inevitable. Mrs. 
Gaunt looked in later, after dinner, in the darkening; and she, too, 
was of opinion that something must be done. She was affected to 
tears by the thought of that mystery in their very midst, and of 
what the poor (unknown) lady must have suffered, deserted by her 
husband, and bereft of her child. “ He might at least have left her 
her child,’' she said with a sob; and she was fully of opinion that 
he should be spoken to without delay, and that they should not rest 
till Frances had been restored 1o her mother. She thought it was 
“ a duty ” on the part of Mr. Durant to interfere. The consensus 
was thus unanimous; there was not a dissentient voice in the entire 
community. “ We will sleep upon it,” Mr. Durant said. But the 
morning brought no further light. They were all agreed more 
strongly than ever that Waring ought to be spoken to, and that it 
was undeniably a duty for the clergyman to interfere. 

Mr. Durant accordingly set out before it was too late, before the 
midday breakfast, which is the coolest and calmest moment of the 
day, the time for business, before social intercourse is supposed to 
begin. He was very carefully brushed from his hat to his shoes, 
and was indeed a very agreeable example of a neat old clerical gen- 
tleman. Ecclesiastical costume was much more easy in those days. 
It was before the era of long coats and soft hats, when a white tie 


60 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


was the one incontrovertible sign of the clerg3^man who did not 
tliink of calling himself a priest. He was indeed, having been for 
a number of years located in Catholic countries, very particular not 
to call himself a priest, or to condescend to any garb which could 
recall the soutane and three-cornered hat of the indigenous clergy. 
His black clothes were spotless, but of the ordinary cut, perhaps a 
trifle old-fashioned. But yet neither soutane nor herreita could have 
made it more evident that Mr. Durant, setting out with an ebony 
stick and black gloves, was an English clergyman going mildly, but 
firmly, to interfere. Had he been met with in the wilds of Africa, 
even there, mistake would have been impossible. In his serious 
ej^e, in the aspect of the corners of his mouth, in a certain air of 
gentle determination ditfused over his whole person, this was ap- 
parent. It made a great impression upon Domenico when he opened 
the door. After what had happened yesterday Domenico felt that 
anything might happen. “ Lo, this man’s brow, like to a title leaf, 
foretells the nature of the tragic volume, ’ he said to Mariuccia — at 
least if he did not use these words, his meaning was the same. He 
ushered the English pastor into the room which Mr. Waring occupied 
as a library, with bated breath. ‘ ‘ Master is going to catch it, ’ ’ was 
what, perhaps, a light-minded Cockney might have said. But 
Domenico was a serious man, and did not trifle. 

Waring’ s library was, like all the rooms of his suite, an oblong 
room, with three windows and as many doors, opening into the 
dining-room on one hand, and the ante-room oh the other. It had 
the usual indecipherable fresco on the roof, and the walls on one 
side were half clothed with book-cases. Not a very large collection 
of books, and yet enough to make a pretty show, with their old 
gilding, and the dull white of the vellum in which so many were 
bound. It was a room in which he spent the most of his time, and 
it had been made comfortable according to the notions of comfort 
prevailing in these regions. There was a square of carpet under 
his writing-table. His chair was a large old fauteuil, covered with 
very faded damask; and curtains, also faded, were festooned over 
all the windows and doors. The persianis were shut, to keep out 
the sun, and Ihe cool atmosphere had a greenish tint. Waring, 
however, did not look so peaceful as his room. He sat with his 
chair pushed away from the table, reading what seemed to be a 
novel. He had the air of a man who had taken refuge there from 
some embarrassment or annoyance; not the tranquil look of a man 
occupied in so-called studies needing leisure, with his note-books at 
hand, and pen and ink within reach. Such a man is usually veiy 
glad to be interrupted in the midst of his self-imposed labors; and 
Waring’ s first movement was one of satisfaction. He threw down 
the book, with an apology for having ever taken it up in the half- 
ashamed, half- violent way in which he got rid of it. Don t suppose 
I care for such rubbish, his gesture seemed to say. But the aspect of 
Mr. Durant changed his look of welcome. He rose hurriedly”, and 
gave his visitor a chair. “You are early out,’’ he said. 

“ Yes; the morning, I find, is the best time. Even after the sun 
is down, it is never so fresh in the eveniiig. Especially for business, 

I find it the best time. ’ ’ 

“That means, I suppose,’’ said Waring, “that your visit thig 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 61 

morninff means business, and not mere friendship, as I had sup- 
posed?’^ 

“Friendship always, I hope,” said the tidy old clergyman, 
smoothing his hat with his hand; “ but I don’t deny it is something 
more serious — a — a — question I want to ask you, if you don’t 
mind — ” 

Just at this moment, in the next room, there rose a little mo- 
mentary and pleasant clamor of voices and youthful laughter; two 
voices certainly — Frances and another. This made Mr. Durant 
prick up his ears. “ You have — visitors?” he said. 

“.Yes. I will answer to the best of my ability,” said Waring* 
■with a smile. 

Now was the time when Mr. Durant realized the difficult nature 
of his mission. At home in his own house, especially in the midst 
of the consensus of opinions, with everybody encouraging him and 
pressing upon him the fact that it was ‘ ‘ a duty, ’ ’ the matter seemed 
easy enough. But when he found himself in Wariug’s house, look- 
ing a man in the face with whose concerns he had really no right to 
interfere, and who had not at all the air of a man ready to be 
brought to the confessional, Mr. Durant’s confidence failed him. 
He faltered a little; he looked at his very; unlikely penitent, and 
then he looked at the hat which he was turning round in his hands, 
but which gave him no courage. Then he cleared his throat. 
“ The question is — quite a simple one,” he said. “ There can be 
no doubt of your ability — to answer. I am sure you will forgive 
me if I say, to begin with — ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ One moment. Is this question — which seems to trouble you — > 
about my affairs or yours?” 

Mr. Durant’s clear complexion betrayed something like a flush. 
“ That is just what I want to explain. You will acknowledge, my 
dear Waring, that you have been received here — well, there is not 
very much in our power — but Avith every friendly feeling, every 
desire to make you one of us.” 

“ All this preface shows me that it is I who have been found 
•v\-anting. You are quite right; you have been most hospitable and 
kind. To myself, almost too much so; to my daughter, you have 
given all the society she has ever known.” 

“lam glad, truly glad, that you think we have done our part. 
My dear friend,, was it right, then, when Ave opened our arms to 
you so unsuspectingly, to come among us in a false character — under 
false colors?” 

“ Stop!” said Waring, growing pale. “ This is going a little too 
far. I suppose I understand Avhat you mean. Mannering, who 
calls himself my old friend, has been here; and as he could not hold 
his tongue if his life depended upon it, he has told you— But Avhy 
you should accuse me of holding a false position, of coming under 
false colors — which was what you said — ” 

“ Waring!” said the clergyman, in a voice of mild thunder, “ did 
you never think, when you came here, comparatively a young, and 
— Avell, still a good-looking man— did you never think that there 
might be some susceptible heart — some woman’s heart — ” 

“Good heavens!” cried Waring, starting to his feet, “ I never 
supposed for a moment — ” 


62 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“ — Some young creature,” Mr. Durant continued solemnly, 
“ whom it might be my duty and your duty to guard from decep- 
tion; but who, naturally, taking you for a widower — ” 

vVaring’s countenance of horror was unspeakable. He stood up 
before his table like a little toy w^ho was about to be caned. ^ Ex- 
clamations of dismay fell unconsciously from his lips. “ Sir! 1 
never thought — ” 

Mr. Durant paused, to contemplate with pleasure the panic he 
had caused. He put down his hat and rubbed together his little 
fat white hands. “ By the blessing of providence,” he said, drawl- 
ing a long breath, “ that danger has been averted. I say it with 
thankfulness. We have been preserved from any such terrible re- 
sult. But had things been differently ordered — think, only think! 
and be grateful to providence.” 

The answer wdiich Waring made to this speech was to burst into 
a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He seemed incapable of recovering 
his gravity. As soon as lie paused, exhausted, to draw breath, he 
w^as off again. The suggestion, when it ceased to be horrible, be- 
came ludicrous beyond description. He quavered forth: ‘I lieg 
your pardon,” between the fits, which Mr. Durant did not at all 
like. He sat looking on at the hilarity very gravely without a smile. 
” I did not expect so much levity,” he said. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon,” cried the culprit, with tears running dowm 
his cheek^s. “ Forgive me. If you will recollect that the character 
of a gay Lothario is the last one in the world — ” 

” It is not necessary to be a gay Lothario,” returned the clergy- 
man. “ Really, if this is to continue, it will be better that I should 
withdraw. Laughter was the last thing I intended to produce. ’ ’ 

“ It is not a bad thing, and it is not an indulgence I am given to. 
But, I think, considering what a very terrible alternative you set 
before me, we may be very glad it has ended in laughter. Mr. 
Durant,” continued Waring, “you have only anticipated an ex- 
planation I intended to make. Mannering is an ass.” 

“lam sure he is a most respectable member of society,” said Mr. 
Durant, with much gravity. 

“So are many asses. I have some one else to present to you, 
who is very unlike Mannering, but who betrays me still more dis- 
tinctly. Constance, I want you here.” 

The old clergyman gazed, not believing his eyes, as there sud- 
denly appeared in the door- way the tall figure of, a girl who had 
never l^en seen as yet in Bordighera, a girl who was very simply 
dressed, yet who had an air which the old gentleman, acquainted, 
as he flattered himself, with the air of fine people, could not ignore. 
She stood with a careless grace, returning slightly, not without a 
little of that impertinence of a fine lady which is so impressive to 
the crowd, his salutation. “ Did you want me, papa?” she quietly 
asked. 


CHAPTER X. 

The revelation which thus burst upon Mr. Durant was knowm 
throughout the length and breadth of Bordighera, as that good 
man said, before the day was out. The expression w^as not 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. C3 

SO inappropriate as might be at first supposed, consideimg the 
limited societj^^ to which the fact that Mr. Waring had a second 
daughter was of any particular interest; for the good chaplain’s own 
residence was almost at the extremity of the Marina, and General 
Gaunt’s on the highest point cf elevation among the olive gardens; 
while the only other English inhabitants were in the hotels near the 
beach and consisted of a landlady, a housekeeper, and the highly 
respectable person who had charge of the stables at tlie Bellevue. 
This little inferior world was respectfully interested but not excited 
by the new arrival. 

But to Mrs. Durant and Tasie it was an event of the first impor- 
tance; and Mrs, Gaunt was at first disposed to believe that it Avas a 
revelation of further wickedness, and ,that there was no telling 
where these discoveries might end. “ We shall be hearing that he 
has a son next,” she said. They had a meeting in the afternoon to 
talk it over; and it really did appear at first that the new disclosure 
enhanced the enormity of the first; for, naturally, the difference be- 
tween a widower and a married man is aggravated by the discovery 
that the deceiver pretending to have only one child has really ‘ ‘ a 
family.” At the first glance the ladies were all impressed by this; 
though afterward, when they began to think of it, they Avere obliged 
to admit that the conclusion perhaps Avas not very AA^ell founded. 
And Avhen it turned out that Frances and the neAv-comer were tAvins 
that altogether altered the question, and left them, though they were 
by no means satisfied, without anything further to say. 

While all this went on outside the Palazzo there was much going 
on Avithin it that was calculated to produce difficulty and embarrass- 
ment. Mr. Waring, Avith a consciousness that he was acting a some- 
what cowardly part, ran away from it altogether, and shut himself 
up in his library, and left his daughters to make acquaintance with 
each other as they best could. He was, as has been said, by no 
means sufficiently at his ease to return to Avhat he called his studies, 
the ordinary occupations of his life. He had run away, and he 
kneAv it. He went so far as to turn the key in the door, so that, 
whatever happened, he could only be invaded from one side, and 
sat down uneasily in the full conviction that from moment to mo- 
ment he might be called upon to act as interpreter or peace-maker, 
or to explain away difficulties. He did not understand women, but 
only his wife, from whom he had taken various prejudices on the 
subject; neither did he understand girls, but only Frances, whom, 
indeed, he ought to have known better than to suppose either that 
she was likely to squabble with her sister, or call him in to mediate 
or explain. Frances was not at all likely to do either of these things; 
and he kneAv that; yet lived in a vague dread, and did not even sit 
comfortably on his chair, and tried to distract his mind with a novel 
— Avhich was the condition in which he was found by Mr. Durant. 
The clergyman’s visit did him a little good, giving him at once a 
grievance and an object of ridicule. During the rest of the day he 
Avas so far distracted from his real difficulties as to fall from time 
to time into fits of secret laughter over fhe idea of having been in 
all unconsciousness a source of danger for Tasie. He had never 
been a gay Lothario, as he said; but to ha\'e run the risk of de- 
stroying Tasie’s peace of mind Avas beyond his Avildest imagination. 


64 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


He longed to confide it to somebody; but there was^ no one with 
whom he could share the fun. Constance perhaps might have un- 
derstood; but Frances! He relapsed into gravity when he thought 
of Frances. It was not the kind of ludicrous suggestion which 
would amuse her. 

Meanwhile, the girls, who were such strangers to each other, yet 
so closely bound by nature, were endeavoring to come to a knowl- 
edge of each other by means which were much more subtle than 
any explanation their father could have supplied; so that he might, 
if he had understood them better, have been entirely at his ease on 
this point. As a matter of fact, though Constance was the cleverer 
of the two, it was Frances who advanced most quickly in her in- 
vestigations, for the excellent reason that it was Constance who 
talked, while Frances, for the most part having nothing at all in- 
teresting to say of herself, held her peace. Frances had been 
awakened at an unusually late hour in the morning, for the agita 
tion of the night had abridged her sleep at the other end — by the 
sounds of mirth which accompanied the first dialogue between her 
new sister and Mariuccia. The Italian which Constance knew was 
not very much, and it was of a finer quality than any with which 
Mariuccia was acquainted; but still they came to some sort of un- 
derstanding, and both repudiated the efforts of Frances to explain. 
And from that moment Constance had kept the conversation in her 
hands. She did not chatter, nor was there any ai^pearance of lo 
quacity in her; but Frances had lived much alone, and had been 
taught not to disturb her father when she was with him, so that it 
w^as more her habit to be talked to than to talk. She did not oven 
ask many questions; they were scarcely necessary; for Constance, 
as was natural, was full of herself and of her motives for the step 
she had taken. These revelations gave Frances noAv lights almost 
at every word. 

“ You always knew, then, about us?” Frances said. She" had in- 
tended to say “about me,” but refrained, with mingled modesty 
and pride. 

“Oh, certainly. Mamma always writes, you know, at Christmas, 
if not oftener. We did not know you were here. It was Markham 
who found out that. Markham is the most active-minded fellow in 
the world. Papa does not much like him. I dare say you have 
never heard anything very favorable of him; but that is a mistake. 
We knew pretty well about you. Mamma used to ask that you 
should write, since there was no reason why, at your age, you 
should not speak for yourself; but you never did. I suppose he 
thought it better not. ’ ’ 

“ I suppose so.” 

“But I should not myself have been restrained by that, ” said 
Constance “ I think very well on the whole of papa; but obedience 
of that sort at our age is too much; I should not have obeyed him. 

I should have told him, that in such a matter I must judge for my- 
self. IIoAvever, if one learns anything as one grows up,” said this 
young philosopher, “it is that no two people are alike. I suppose 
that was not how the subject presented itself to you?” 

Frances made no reply. She wondered what she would have said 
had she been told to write to an unknown mother. Ought she to do 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 65 

SO now? The idea was a very strange one to her mind, and yet 
what could he more natural? "it was with a sense of precipitate 
avoidance of a subject which must be contemplated fully at an 
after-period, that she said hurriedly: “ I have never written letters. 
It did not come into my head.” 

“Ah!” said Constance, looking at her with a sort of impartial 
scnitiny. Then she added with a sequence of thoughts which it 
was not difficult to follow: “Don’t you think it is very odd that 
you and I should be the same age?” 

Frances felt herself grow red, and the water came to her eyes. 
She looked wistfully at the other, who was so much more advanced 
than she felt herself to be. “I suppose — we ought to have been 
like each other,” she said. 

“We are not, however, a bit. You are like mamma. I don’t 
know whether you are like her in mind; but on the outside. And I 
am like him. It is very funny. It shows that one has these pe- 
culiarities from one’s birth; it couldn’t be habit or association, as 
people say, for I have never been with him — neither have you with 
mamma. I suppose he is very independent-minded, and does what 
he likes without thinking? So do I. And you consider what other 
people will say, and how it will look, and a thousand things.” 

It did not seem to Frances that this was the case; but she was not 
at all in the habit of studying herself, and made no protest. Did 
she consider very much what other people would say? Perhaps it 
was true. She had been obliged, she reflected, to consider what 
Mariuccia would say; so that probably Constance was right. 

“ It was Markham that discovered you, after all, as I told you. 
He is invaluable; he never forgets; and if you want to find any- 
thing out he will take any amount of trouble. I may as well tell 
you why I left home. If we are going to live together as sisters, 
we ought to make confidantes of each other; and if you have to go, 
you can take my part. "Well, then! You must know there is a 
man in it. They say you sliould always ask, ‘ Who is she?’ when 
there is a row between men; and I am sure it is just as natural to 
ask, ‘ Who is he?’ when a girl gets into a scrape.” 

The language, the tone, tlie meaning, were all new to Frances. 
She did not know anything about it. When there is a row between 
men; when a girl gets into a scrape; the one and the other were 
equally far from her experience. She felt herself blush, though she 
scarcely knew why. She shook her head when Constance added, 
though rather as a remark lhan as a question; “ Don’t you know? 
Oh, well; I did not mean, have you any personal experience, but 
as a general principle? The man in this case was well enough. 
Papa said, when I told him, that it was quite right; that I had 
better have made up my mind without making a fuss; that he would 
have advised me so, if he had known. But I will never allow that 
this is a point upon which any one can judge for you. Mamma 
pressed me more than a mother has any right to do — to a person of 
my age, ” 

’“ But, Constance, eighteen is not so ver}^ old.” 

“ Eighteen is the age of reason,” said the girl somewhat imperi- 
ously; then she paused and added— “ in most cases, when one has 
been much in the world, like me. Besides, it is like the middle 
3 


6(3 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


ages when your mother thinks she can make you do what she pleases 
and mar:^ as she likes. That must be one’s own affair. I must 
say that I thought papa would take my part more strongly, for they 
have always been so much opposed. But after all, though he is 
not in harmony with her, still the parents’ side is his side.” 

“Did you not like — the gentleman?” said Frances. Nothing 
could be more modest than this question, and yet it brought the 
blood to her face. She had never heard the ordinary badinage on 
this subject, or thought of love with anything but awe and rever- 
ence, as a mystery altogether beyond her and out of discussion. 
She did not look at her sister as she put the question. Constance 
lay back in the long wicker-work chair, well lined with cushions, 
which was her father’s favorite seat, with her hands clasped behind 
her head, in one of those attitudes of complete abandon which 
Frances had been trained to think impossible to a girl.. 

“ Did I like — the gentleman? I did not think that question could 
ever again be put to me in an original way. I see now what is the 
good of a sister. Mamma and Markham and all my people had such 
a different way of looking at it. You must know that that is not 
the first question, whether you like the man. As for that, I liked 
him — well enough. There was nothing to — dislike in him.” 

Frances turned her eyes to her sister’s face with something like 
reproach. ‘ ‘ I may not have used the right word. I have never 
spoken on such subjects before. ’ ’ 

“I have always been told that men are dreadful prudes,” said 
Constance. “I suppose papa has brought you up to think that 
such things must never be spoken of. I’ll tell you what is original 
about it. I have been asked if ha was not rich enough, if he was 
not handsome enough, if he had not a good enough title, and 1 have 
been asked if I loved him, which was nonsense; I have not known 
him long enough. I could answer all that; but you I can’t answer. 
Don’t I like him? I was not going to be persecuted about him. It 
was Markham who put it into my head. ‘ Why don’t you go to 
your father,’ he said, ‘if you won’t hear reason? He is just the 
sort of person to understand j^ou, if we don’t.’ So, then, I took 
them at their word. I came off — to papa. ’ ’ 

“ Does Markham dislike papa? I mean, doesn’t he think — ” 

“ I know what you mean. They don’t think that papa has good 
sense. They think him romantic, and all that. I have always 
been accustomed to think so, too. But the curious thing is that he 
isn’t,” said Constance, wfith an injured air. “ I suppose, however 
foolish one’s father may be for himself, he still feels that he must 
stand on the parents’ side.”. 

“You speak,” said Frances, with a little indignation, “ as if papa 
was likely to be against — his children; as if he were an enemy.” 

“Taking sides is not exactly being enemies,” said Constance, 

‘ ‘ We are each of our own faction, you know. It is like Whigs and 
Tories. The fathers and mothers side wdth each other, even though 
they may be quite different, and not get on together There is a 
kind of reason in it. Only, I have always heard so much of papa 
as unreasonable and unlike other people, that I never thought of 
him in that light. He would be, though, except that for the pres- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


67 


ent I am such a stranger, and he feels hound to he civil to me. If 
it were not for his politeness he is capable of being mediaeval, too.” 

“ I don’t know what mediaeval means,” said Frances, with much 
heat, indignant to hear her father thus spoken of as a subject for 
criticism. Perhaps she had criticised him in her time, as children 
use; but silently, not putting it into words, which makes a great 
difference. And besides, what one does one’s self in this way is 
quite another matter. As she looked at this girl, who was a 
stranger, though in some extraordinary way not a stranger, a mo- 
mentary pang and impotent sudden rage against the web of strange 
circumstances in which she felt herself caught and bewildered flamed 
up in her mild eyes and mind, unaccustomed to complications. 
Oonstance took no notice of this sudden passion. 

” It means bread and water,” she said, with a laugh, “ and shut- 
ting up in one’s own room, and cutting off all communication from 
without. Mamma, if she were driven to it, is quite capable of that. 
They all are — rather than give in; but as these are not the middle 
ages, they have to give in at last. Perhaps, if I had thought that 
what you may call his official character would be too strong for 
papa, I should have fought it out at home. But I thought he at 
least would be himself, and not a conventional parent. I am sure 
he has been a very queer sort of parent hitherto; but the moment a 
fight comes he puts himself on his own side.” 

She gave forth these opinions very calmly, lying back in the long 
chair, with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes follow 
ing abstractedly the lines of the French coast. The voice which 
uttered sentiments so strange to Frances was of the most refined and 
harmonious tones, low, soft, and clear. And the lines of her slim 
elastic figure, and of her perfectly appropriate dress, which com- 
bined simplicity and costliness, carelessness and consummate care, 
as only high art can, added to the effect of a beauty which was not 
beauty in any demonstrative sense, but rather harmony, ease, grace, 
fine health, fine training, and what, for want of a better word, we 
call blood. Not that the bluest blood in the world inevitably carries 
with it this perfection of tone; but Constance had the effect which 
a thorough- bred horse has upon the connoisseur. It would have 
detracted from the impression she made had there been any special 
point upon which the attention lingered— had her eyes, or her com- 
plexion, her hands, or her hair, or any individual trait called for 
particular notice. But hers was not beauty of that description. 

Her sister, who was, so to speak, only a little rustic, sat and gazed 
at her in a kind of rapture. Her heart did not, as yet at least, go 
out toward this intruder into her life, her affections were as yet un- 
touched; and her temper was a little excited, disturbed by the crit- 
ical tone which her sister assumed, and the calm frankness with 
which she spoke. But though all these dissatisfied, almost hostile 
sentiments were in Frances’ mind, her eyes and attention were fas- 
oinatcd. She could not resist the influence which this external 
perfection of being produced upon her. It was only perhaps now 
in the full morning light, in the abandon of this confidence and 
■candor, which had none of the usual tenderness of confidential reve- 
lations, but rather a certain half-disdainful self-discovery which 
necessity demanded, that Frances fully perceived her sister’s gifts. 


68 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Her own impatience, her little impulses of irritation and contradic- 
tion, died away in the wondering admiration with which she gazed. 
Constance showed no sign even of remarking the effect she pro- 
duced. She said meditatively, dropping the words into the calm air 
wdthout any apparent conception of novelty or wnnder in them : 
“ I wonder how you wull like it wdien you have to go.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

Within the first few days a great many of these conversations 
took place, and Frances gradually formed an idea to herself, not, 
perhaps, very like reality, but yet an idea, of the other life from 
which her sister had come. The chief figure in it was “ mamma,” 
tlie mother with whom Constance was so carelessly familiar, and of 
whom she herself knew nothing at all. Frances did not learn from 
her sister's revelations to love her mother. The effect was very 
different from that which, in such circumstances, would have taken 
place in a novel. She came to look upon this unknown representa- 
tive of ‘‘ the parents’ side,’ as Constance said, as upon a sort of 
natural opponent, one who understood but little and sympathized 
not at all with the younger, the other portion, the generation wdiich 
w’^as to succeed and replace her. Of this fact the other girl never 
concealed hei easy conviction. The elders for the moment had the 
power in their hands, but by and by their day would be over. There 
was nothing unkind or cruel in this certainty; it was simply the 
course of nature, which by and by w^ould be upset by natural prog- 
ress of events, and wdiich in the meantime was modified by the 
olhei certainty, that if the young stood firm the elders had no alter- 
native but to give in. Altogether, it w’-as evident the parents’ side 
was not the winaing side: but all the same it had the power of an- 
noying the other to a very great extent, and exercised this power 
with a selfishness wdiich was sometimes brutal. Mamma it was 
evident had not considered Constance at all. She had taken her 
about into socrely for her own ends, not for her daughter’s pleas- 
ure. She had formed a plan by which Constance was to be handed 
over to another proprietor without any consultation of her own 
wishes. 

The heart of Frances sunk as she slowly identified this maternal 
image, so different from the image of fancy. She tried to compare 
it with the image which she herself might in her turn have com- 
municated of her father, had it been she who was the expositor. . It 
frightened her to find, as she tried this experiment in her own mind, 
that the representation of papa would not have been much more 
satisfactory. She would have shown him as passing his time chiefly 
in his library, taking very little notice of her tastes and wishes, set- 
tling what was to be done, where to go, everything that was of any 
importance in their life, without at all taking into account what 
she wished. This she had always felt to be perfectly natural, and 
she had no feeling of a grievance in the matter; but supposing it to 
be necessary to tell the story to an ignorant person, what would 
that ignorant person’s opinion be? It gave her a great shock to 
perceive that the impression produced would also be one of harsh 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


69 


authority, indifferent, taking no note of the inclinations of those 
■who were subject to it. That was how Constance would represent 
papa. It was not the case, and yet it would look so to one who did 
not know. Perceiving this, Frances came to feel that it might be 
natural to represent the world as consisting of two factions, parents 
and children. There was a certain truth in it. If there should hap- 
pen to occur any question — which was impossible— between papa 
and herself, she felt sore that it would be very difficult for him to 
realize that she had a will of her own ; and yet Frances was very 
conscious of having a will of her own. 

In this way she learned a great many things vaguely through the 
talk of her sister. She learned that balls and other entertainments, 
such, as, to her inexperienced fancy, had seemed nothing but pleas- 
ure, were not in reality intended, at least as their first object, for 
pleasure at all. Constance spoke of them as things to which one 
must go. “ We looked in for an hour,” she would say. “ Mamma 
thinks she ought to have half a dozen places to go to every even- 
ing,” with a tone in which there was more sense of injury than 
pleasure. Then there was the mj^sterious question of love, which 
■was at once so simple and so awful a matter, on which there could 
be no doubt or question; that, it appeared, was quite a complicated 
affair, in which the lover, the hero, was transferred into ” the 
man,” whose qualities had to be discovered and considered, as if he 
were a candidate for a public office. All this bewildered Frances 
more than can be imagined or described. Her sister’s arrival, and 
the disclosure involved in it, had broken up to her all the known 
lines of heaven and earth; and now that everything had settled down 
again, and these lines were beginning once more to be apparent, 
Frances felt that*though they were wider they were narrower, too. 
She knew a giteat deal more; but knowledge only made that appear 
hard and unyielding which had been elastic and infinite. The 
vague and imaginary were a great deal more lovely than this, 
which, according to her sister’s revelation, was the real and true. 

Another very curious experience for Frances occurred when Mrs. 
Durant and Mrs. Gaunt, as in duty bound, and moved with lively 
curiosity, came to call and make acquaintance with Mr. Waring’s 
new daughter. Constance regarded these visitors with languid 
curiosity, only half rising from her chair to acknowledge her intro- 
duction to them, and leaving Frances to answer the questions which 
they thought it only civil to put. Did she like Bordighera? 

“ Oh, yes, well enough,” Constance replied. 

“ My sister thinks the people not so picturesque as she expected,” 
said Frances. 

“ But of course she felt the delightful difference in the climate?” 
People, Mrs. Durant understood, were suffering dreadfully from 
east wind in London. 

‘‘Ah! one doesn’t notice in town,” said Constance. “My 
sister is not accustomed to living without comforts and with so 
little furniture. You know that makes a great difference,” said her 
anxious expositor and apologist. 

And then there would ensue a long pause, which the new-comer 
did nothing at all to break, and the conversation fell into the 
ordinary discussion of who was at church on Sunday, how many 


70 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


new people from the hotels, and how disgraceful it was that some 
who were evidently English should either poke into tlie Roman 
Catholic places' or never go to church at all. 

“ It comes to the same thing, indeed,” Mrs. Durant said, indig- 
nantly; “ for when they go to the native place of worship, they 
don’t understand. Even I, that have been so long on the continent, 
I can’t follow the service.” 

‘ ‘ But papa can, ’ ’ said Tasie. 

‘‘All, papa — papa is much more highly educated than I could 
ever pretend to be; and besides, he is a theologian, and knows. 
There were quite half a dozen people, evidently English, whom I 
saw with my own eyes coming out of the chapel on the Marina. 
Oh, don’t say anything, Tasie! I think, in a foreign place, where 
the English have a character to keep up, it is quite a sin.” 

“You know, mamma, they think nobody knows them,” Tasie 
said. 

Mrs. Gaunt did not care so much who attended church; but when 
she found that Constance had, as she told the general, “ really noth- 
ing to say for herself,” she too dropped into her habitual mode of 
talk. She did her best in the first place to elicit the opinions of 
Constance about Bordighera and the climate, about how she thought 
Mr. Waring looking, and if dear Frances was not far stronger than 
she used to be. But when these judicious inquiries failed of a re- 
sponse, Mrs. Gaunt almost turned her back upon Constance. “ I 
have had a letter from Katie, my dear, ’ ’ she said. 

“ Have you, indeed? I hope she is quite well — and the babies?” 

“ Oh, the babies; they are always well. But poor Katie, she has 
been a great sufferer. I told you she had a touch of fever, by last 
mail. Now, it is her liver. You are never safe from your liver in 
India. She had been up to the hills, and there she met Douglas, 
who had gone to settle his wife and children. His wufe is a poor 
little creature, always ailing; and their second boy — But, dear 
me, I have not told you my great news. Frances — George is com- 
ing home! He is coming by Brindisi and Venice, and will be 
here directly. I told him I was sure all my kind neighbors would 
be so glad to see him; and it will be so nice for him — don’t you think 
— to see Italy on his way?” 

“ Oh, very nice!” said Frances. “ And you must be very happy, 
both the general and you. ’ ’ 

“ The general does not say much; but he is just as happy as I 
am. Fancy! by next mail! in another week!” The poor lady 
dried her eyes, and added, laughing, sobbing: “ Only think — in a 
week — my y ou ngest boy ! ’ ’ 

“ Do you mean to say,” said Constance, when Mrs. Gaunt was 
gone, “ that you have made them believe you care? Oh, that is ex- 
actly like mamma. She makes people think she is quite happy and 
quite miserable about their affairs, when she does not care one little 
bit! What is this woman’s youngest son to you?” 

“ But she is — I have been here all my life. I am glad that she 
should be happy,” cried Frances, suddenly placed upon her defense. 

When she thought of it, Mrs. Gaunt’s youngest boy was nothing 
at all to her; nor did she care very much whether all the English in 
the hotels on the Marina went to churcln But Mrs. Gaunt was 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAII^ST ITSELF. 


71 

interested in the one, and the Durants in the other. And was it 
true what Constance said, that she was a humbug, that she was a 
deceiver, because she pretended to care? Frances was much con- 
fused by this question. There was something in it; perhaps it 
was true. She faltered as she replied: “ Do you think it is wrong 
to sympathize? It is true that I don’t feel all that for myself. But 
still it is not false, for I do feel it for them — in a sort of a way.” 

“ And that is all the society you have here? the clergy woman, 
and the old soldier. And will they expect me, too, to feel for them 
^in a sort of a way?” 

” Dear Constance,” said Frances, in a pleading tone, “it could 
never be quite the same, you know, because you are a stranger, and 
I have known them ever since I was quite a little thing, They 
have all been very kind to me. They used to have me to tea; and 
Tasie would play with me; and Mrs. Gaunt brought down all her 
Indian curiosities to amuse me. Oh, you don’t know how kind 
they are. I wonder, sometimes, when I see all the carved ivoiy 
things, and remember how they were taken out from under the 
glass shades for me, a little thing, how I didn’t break them, and 
how dear Mrs. Gaunt could trust me with them. And then Tasie — ’* 

“ Tasie! What a ridiculous name. But it suits her well enough. 
She must be forty, I should think. ’ ’ 

“ Her right name is Anastasia. She is called after the Countess 
of Denrftra, who is her godmother, ’ ’ said Frances, with great grav- 
ity. She had heard this explanation a great many times from Mrs, 
Durant, and unconsciously repeated it in something of the same 
tone. Constance received this, with a sudden laugh, and clapped 
her hands. 

“ I didn’t know you were a mimic. That is capital. Do Tasie 
now. I am sure you can; and then we shall liave got a laugh out 
of them at least. ’ ’ 

“ What do you mean?” asked Frances, growing pale. “ Do you 
think I would laugh at them? When you know how really good 
they are — ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes; I suppose I shall soon know,” said Constance, open- 
ing her mouth in a yawn, which Frances thought would have been 
dreadful in any one else, but which, somehow, was rather pretty 
in her. Everything was rather pretty in her, even her little rude- 
nesses and impertinences. “ If I stay here, of course I shall have 
to be intimate with them, as you have been. And must I take a 
tender interest in the youngest boy? Let us seel He will be a 
young soldier probably, as his mother is an old one, and as he is 
coming from India. He will never have seen any one. He is 
bound to take one of us for a goddess, either you or me.” 

“ Constance!” cried Frances, in her consternation, raising her 
voice. 

“Well!” said her sister, “is there anything wonderful in that? 
We are very different types, and till we see the hero we shall not be 
able to tell which he is likely to prefer. I see my way to a little 
diversion, if you will not be too puritanical. Fan. That never does 
a man any harm. It will rouse him up; -it will give him something 
to think of. A place like this can’t have much amusement, even 
for a youngest boy. We shall make him enjoy himself. His 


72 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

mother will bless us. You know, everybody says it is part of 
education for a man.” 

Frances looked at her sister with eyes bewildered, somewhat 
horrified, full of disapproval; while Constance, roused still more by 
her sister’s horror than by the first mischievous suggestion which 
had awakened her from her indifference, laughed, and woke up 
into full animation. “We will go and return their visits,” she 
said, “and I will be sympathetic, too. But you shall see when I 
take up a part I make much more of it than you do. I know who 
these people were who did not go to church. They were my peo- 
ple — the people I traveled with; and they shall go next Sunday; 
and Tasie’s heart shall rejoice. 'When we call, I will let them 
know that England, even at Bordighera, expects every man — and 
every woman, which is more to the purpose — and that their absence 
was remarked. They will never be absent again. Fan. And as 
for the other interest, I shall inquire all about Katie’s illnesses, and 
secure the very last intelligence about the youngest boy. She will 
show me his photograph. She will tell me stories of how he cut 
his first tooth. I wonder, ’ ’ said Constance, suddenly pausing and 
falling back into the old languid tone, “ whether you will take up 
my old ways, when you are with mamma.” 

“ I shall never have it in my power to try,” said Frances. 
“ Mamma will never want me.” She was a little shy of using that 
name. 

“ Don’t 3^ou know the condition, then? I think you don’t half 
know our story. Papa behaved ratlier absurdly, but honestly, too. 
When they separated he settled that one of us should always be 
with her, and one of us with him. He had the right to have taken 
us both. Men have more rights than women. We belong to him, 
but we didn’t belong to her. I don’t see the reason of it, but still 
that is law. He allowed her to have one of us always. I dare say 
he thought two little things like what we were then would have 
been a bore to him. At all events, that is how it was settled. Now, 
it does not need much cleverness to see, that as I have left her, she 
will probably claim you. She will not let papa off anything he has 
promised. She likes a girl in the house. She will say: ‘ Send me 
Frances. ’ I should like to hide behind a door or under a table, 
and see how you get on.” 

“I am sure you must be mistaken,” said Frances, much dis- 
turbed; “ there was never ain^ question about me.” 

“ No; because I was there. Oh, j^es; there was often question of 
you. Mamma has a little picture of you as you were when j^ou 
were taken away. It alwaj-s hangs in her room; and when I had 
to be scolded she used to apostrophize you. She used to say: 

‘ That little angel would never have done so-and-so. ’ I did, for I 
was a little demon; so I rather hated 3"ou. She will send for j^ou 
now; and I wonder if you will be a little angel still. I should like 
to see how you get on. But I shall be fully occupied here driving 
people to church, and making things pleasant for the old soldier’s 
youngest son.” 

“ I wish 3'ou would not talk so wildly,” said Frances. “You 
are laughing at me all the time. You think I am such a simpleton, 
I will believe all 3^011 sa3'. And indeed I am not clever enough to 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 73 

Understand when you are laiigliini? at me. All this is impossible. 
That I should take your place, and that you should take mine— oh] 
impossible!” cried Frances, with a sharper certainty than ever, as 
tliat last astounding idea made itself apparent; that Constance 
should order papa’s dinners and see after the mayonnaise, and 
guide Mariuccia — “ oh, impossible!” she cried. 

“ Nothing is impossible. You think I am not good enough to 
do the housekeeping for papa. I only hope you will 8'en tirer of 
the difficulties of my place, as I shall of youi-s. Be a kind girl, 
and write to me, and tell me how things go. I know what will 
happen. You will think everything is charming at first; and then — 
But don’t let Markham get hold of you. Markham is very nice. 
He is capital for getting you out of a scrape; but still, I should not 
advise you to be guided by him, especially as you are papa’s child, 
and he is not fond of papa.*” 

Please don’t say any more,” cried Frances. “ I am not going 
— anywhere. I shall live as I have alw'ays done; but only more 
pleasantly from having — you.” 

“ That is very pretty of you,” said Constance, turning round to 
look at her; “ if you are sure you mean it, and that it is not only 
true — in a sort of a way. I am afraid I have been nothing but a 
bore, breaking in upon you like this. It w^ould be nice if w^e could 
be together,” she added, very calmly, as if, how’^ever, no great 
amount of philosophy w^ould be necessary to reconcile her to the 
absence of her sister. “ It w^ould be nice; but it will not be allowed. 
You needn’t be afraid, though, for I can give you a number of hints 
which will make it much easier. Mamma is a little — she is just a 
little — but I should think you would get on with her. You look so 
young, for one thing. She will begin your education over again, 
and she likes that; and then you are like her, which will give you 
a great pull. It is very funny to think of it; it is like a transforma- 
tion scene; but I dare say wp shall both get on a great deal better 
than you think. For my part, I never was the least afraid. ” 

With this Constance sunk into her chair again, and resumed the 
book she had been reading, wdth that perfect composure and in- 
difference which filled Frances with admiration and dismay. 

It was with difficulty that Frances herself kept her seat or Irer 
self-command. She had been drawing, making one of those in- 
numerable sketches which could be made from the loggia — now of 
a peak among the mountains; now of the edge of foam on the blue, 
blue margin of the sea; now of an olive, now of a palm. Frances 
had a persistent conscientious way of besieging Nature, forcing her 
day by day to render up the secret of another tint, another shadows 
It was thus she had come to the insight wdiich had made her father 
acknowledge that she was “ growing up. ” But to-day her hand 
had no cunning. Her pulses beat so tumultuously that her pencil 
shared the agitation, and fluttered, too. She kept still as long as 
she could, and spoiled a piece of paper, wdiich to Frances, with very 
little money to lose, was something to be thought of. And wdien 
she had accomplished this, and added to her excitement the dis- 
agreeable and confusing effect of failure in what she was doing, 
Frances got up abruptly and took refuge in the hou.sehold con- 
cerns, in directions about the dinner and consultations with Maruc- 


74 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


cia, who was beginning to be a little jealous of the signorina’s ab- 
solution in her new companion. “ If the young lady is indeed 
your sister it is natural she should have a great deal of your atten- 
tion; but not even for that does one desert one’s old friends,” 
Maruccia said, with a little offended dignity. 

Frances felt, with a sinking of the heart, that her sister’s arrival 
had been to her perhaps less an unmixed pleasure than to any of the 
household. But she did not say so. She made no exhibition of 
the trouble in her bosom, which even the consultations over the 
mayonnaise did not allay. That familiar duty indeed soothed her 
for the moment. The question was whether it should be made with 
chicken or fish — a very important matter. But though this did 
something to relieve her, the culinary effort did not last. To think 
of being sent away into that new world in which Constance had 
been brought up — to leave everything she knew — to meet “ mam- 
ma, ’ ’ whose name she whispered to herself almost trembling, feel- 
ing as if she took a liberty •\\dth a stranger — all this was bewilder- 
ing, wonderful, and made her heart beat and her head ache. It 
was not altogether that the anticipation was painful. There was a 
fiutter of excitement in it which was almost delight; but it was an 
alaiTned delight, which shook her nerves as much as if it had been 
unmixed terror. She could not compose herself into indifference, 
as Constance did, or sit quietly down to think, or resume her usual 
occupation in the face of this sudden ojjening out before her of the 
unforeseen and unknown. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The days ran on for about a week with a suppressed and agitating 
expectation in them which seemed to Frances to blur and muddle 
all the outlines, so that she could not recollect which was Wednes- 
day or which was Friday, but felt it all one uncomfortable long 
feverish sort of day. She could not take the advantage of any 
pleasure there might be in them — and it was a pleasure to watch 
Constance, to hear her talk, to catch the many glimpses of so differ- 
ent a life, which came from the careless, easy monologue which was 
her style of conversation — for the exciting sense that she did not 
know what might happen any moment, or what was going to be- 
. come of her. Even the change from her familiar place at table, 
which Constance took without any thought, just as she took her 
father’s favorite chair on the loggia, and the difference in her room, 
helped to confuse her mind, and add to the feverish sensation of a 
life altogether out of joint. 

Constance had not observed any of those signs of individual 
habitation about the room which Frances had fancied would lead 
to a discovery of the transfer she had made. She took it quite 
calmly, not perceiving anything beyond the ordinary in the cham- 
ber which Frances had adorned with her sketches, with the little 
curiosities she had picked up, with ail the little collections of her 
short life. It was wanting still in many things which to Constance 
seemed simple necessities. How was she to kno w how many things 
were in it which were luxuries to that primitive locality? She re* 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


75 


mained altogether unconscious, accordingly, of the sacrifice her 
sister had made for her, and spoke lightly of poor Frances’ pet 
decorations, and of the sketches, the authorship of which she did 
not take the trouble to suspect. “ What funny little pictures,” she 
had said. “ Where did you get so many odd little things? They 
look as if the frames were home-made as well as the drawings.” 

Fortunately, she was not in the habit of waiting for an answer to 
such a question, and she did not remark the color that rose to 
Frances’ cheeks. But all this added to Hie disturbing influence, 
and made these long days look unlike any other days in her life. 
She took the other side of the table meekly with a half smile at her 
father, warning him not to say anything; and she lodged in the 
blue room without thinking of adding to its comforts, for what was 
the use, so long as this possible alteration hung over her head? Life 
seemed to be arrested during these halt dozen days. They had the 
mingled colors and huddled outlines of a spoiled drawing; they 
were not like anything else in her life, neither the established calm 
and certainty that went before, nor the strange novelty that fol- 
lowed after. 

There were no confidences between her father and herself during 
this period. Since their conversation on the night of Constance’s 
aiTival, not a word had been said between them on the sub- 
ject. They mutually avoided all occasion for further talk. At 
least Mr. Waring avoided it, not knowing how to meet his child or 
to explain to her the hazard to which her life was exposed. He 
did not take into consideration the attraction of the novelty, the 
charm of the unknown mother and the unknown life, at which 
Frances permitted herself to take tremulous and stealthy glimpses 
as the days went on. He contemplated her fate from his own point 
of view as something like that of the princess who was doomed to 
the dragon’s maw, but for the never- to-be forgotten interposition of 
St. George, that emblem of chivalry. There was no St. George 
visible on the horizon, and Waring thought the dragon no bad em- 
blem of his wife. And he was ashamed to think that he was help- 
less to deliver her; and that, by his fault, this poor little Una, this 
hapless Andromeda, was to be delivered over to the waiting mon- 
ster. 

He avoided Frances, because he did not know how to break to 
her this possibility, or how, since Constance probably had made 
her aware of it, to console her in the terrible crisis at which 
she had arrived. It was a painful crisis for himself as well 
as for her. The first evening on which, coming into the loggia to 
smoke his cigarette after dinner, he had found Constance extended 
in his favorite chair had brought this fully home to him. He 
strolled out upon the open air room with all the ease of custom, and 
for the first moment he did not quite understand what it was that 
w’as changed in it, that put him out, and made him feel as if he had 
come, not into his own familiar domestic center, but somebody 
else’s place. He hung about for a minute or two, confused, before 
he saw what it was; and then, with a half laugh in his throat, and 
a mingled sense that he was annoyed, and it was ridiculous 
to be annoyed, strolled across the loggia, and half seated him- 
self on the outer wall, leaning against a pillar. He was as- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


7G 

tonisbed to think how much annoyed he was, and with what 
a comical sense of injury he saw his daughter lying back so entirely 
at her ease in his chair. She was his daughter, but she was a 
stranger, and it was impossible to tell her that her place was not 
there. Next evening, he was almost angiy, for he thought that 
Frances might have told her, though he could not. And indeed 
Frances had done what she could to warn her sister of the usurpa- 
tion. But Constance had no idea of vested rights of this descrip- 
tion, and had paid no attention. She took very little notice, indeed, 
of what was said to her, unless it arrested her attention in some 
special way; and she had never been trained to understand that the 
master of a house has sacred privileges. She had not so much as 
known what it is to have a master to a house. 

This and other trifles of the same kind gave to Waring something 
of the same confused and feverish feeling which was in the mind of 
Frances. And there hung over him a cloud as of something further 
to come, which was not so clear as her anticipations, yet w^as full of 
discomfort and apprehension. He thought of many things, not of 
one thing, as she did. . It seemed to him not impossible tliat his 
wife herself might arrive some day as suddenly as Constance had 
done, to reclaim her child, or to take aw^ay his, for that was how 
tliey were distinguished in his mind. The idea of seeing again the 
woman from whom he had been separated so long, filled him with 
dread; and that she should come here and see the limited and re- 
cluse life he led, and his bare rooms, and his homely servants, filled 
him with a kind of horror. Rather anything than that. He did 
not like to contemplate even the idea that it might be necessary to 
give up the girl, wdio had flattered him by taking refuge with him 
and seeking his protection ; but neither was the thought of being 
left with her and having Frances taken from him endurable. In 
short, his mind was in a state of mortal confusion and tumult. He 
w^as like the commander of a besieged city, not knowing on what 
day he might be summoned to surrender; not able to come to any 
conclusion whether it would be most wise to yield, or if the state of 
his resources afforded any feasible hopes of holding out. 

Constance had been a week at the Palazzo before the trumpets 
sounded. The letters were delivered just before the twelve o’clock 
breakfast, and Frances had received so much warning as this, that 
Mariuccia informed her there had been a large delivery that morn- 
ing. The signor padrone had a great packet; and there were also 
some letters for the other young lady, Signorina Constanza. “ But 
never any for thee, carina,” Mariuccia had said. The poor girl 
thus addressed had a momentary sense that she was indeed to be 
pitied on this account, before the excitement of the certainty, that 
now something definite must be known as to what was to become 
of her, swelled her veins to bursting; and she felt herself grow 
giddy with the thought that what had been so vague and visionary, 
might now be coming near, and that in an hour or less she would 
know! Waring was as usual shut up in his look-room; but she 
could see Constance on the loggia with her lap full of letters, lying 
back in the long chair as usual, reading them as if they were the 
most ordinary things in the world. Fiances for her part had to 
wait in silence until slie should learn from others wdiat her fate was 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 77 

to be. It seemed very strange that one girl should be free to do so 
much, while another of the same age could do nothing at all. 

Waring came in to breakfast with the letters in his hand. “ I 
have heard from your mother, ” he said, looking straight before him, 
without turning to the right or the left. Frances tried to appro- 
priate this to herself, to make some reply, but her voice died in her 
throat; and Constance, with the easiest certainty that it was she 
who was addressed, answered before she could recover herself. 

“ Yes? So have I. Mamma is rather fond of writing letters. 
She says she has told you what she wishes, and then she tells me to 
tell you. I don’t suppose that is of much use?” 

“Of no use at all,” said he. “ She is pretty explicit. She 
says — ’ ’ 

Constance leaned over the table a little, holding up her finger. 
“ Don’t you think, papa,” she said, “ as it is business, that it would 
be better not to enter upon it just now? Wait till we have had our 
breakfast.” 

He looked at her with an air of surprise. “ I don’t see,” he said 
— then, after a moment’s reflection: “ Perhaps you are right, after 
all. It may be better not to say anything just now.” 

Frances had recovered her voice. She looked from one to another 
as they spoke with a cruel consciousness that it was she, not they, 
who was most concerned. At this point she burst forth with feel- 
ings not to be controlled. “If it is on my account I would rather 
know at once what it is.” she cried. 

And then she had to bear the looks of both — her father’s astonished 
half-remorseful gaze, and the eyes of Constance, which conveyed a 
'Warning. Why should Constance, who had told her of the danger, 
warn her now not to betray her knowledge of it? Frances had got 
beyond her own control. She was vexed by the looks which were 
fixed upon her, and by the supposed consideration for her comfort 
which lay in their delay. “ I know,” she said, quickly, “ that it is 
something about me. If you think I care for breakfast, you are 
mistaken; but I think I have a right to know what it is, if it is 
about me. Oh, papa, I don’t mean to be — disagreeable,” she cried 
suddenly, sinking into her own natural tone as she caught his eye. 

“ That is not very much like you, certainly,” he said, in a con- 
fused voice. 

“ Evil communications,” said Constance, with a laugh. “ I have 
done her harm already. ’ ’ 

Frances felt that her sister’s voice threw a new irritation into her 
mood. “ I am not like myself,” she said, “ because I know some- 
thing is going to happen to me, and 1 don’t know what it is. Papa, 

I don’t want to be selfish, but let me know, please, only let me 
know what it is. ’ ’ 

“ It is only that mamma has sent for you,” said Constance, light- 
ly. “ That is all. It is nothing so very dreadful. Now, do let us 
have our breakfast in peace.” 

“ Is that true, papa?” Frances said. 

“ My dear little girl — I had meant to explain it all — to tell you — 
and I have been so silly as to put oil. Your sister does not under- 
stand how we have lived together, Frances, you and I.” 

“ Am I to go‘, papa?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


78 

He made a gesture of despair. “ I don’t know wliat to do. I 
have given my promise. It is as bad for me as for you, Frances. 
But what am I to do?” 

“ I suppose,” said Constance, who liad helped herself very tran- 
quill}'- from the dish which Domenico had been holding unobserved 
at his master’s elbow, “ that there is no law that could make you 
part with her, if you don’t wish to. Promises are all very well 
with strangers; but they are never kept — ^are they? — between hus- 
band and wife. The father has all the right on his side; and you 
are not obliged to give either of us up. What a blessing,” she 
cried suddenly, ‘‘to have servants who don’t understand. That 
was why I said don’t talk of it till after breakfast. But it does not 
at all matter. It is as good as if he were deaf and dumb. Papa, 
you need not give her up unless you like.” 

Waring looked at his daughter with mingled attention and anger. 
The suggestion was detestable, but yet — ” 

‘‘And then,” she went on, ‘‘there is another thing. It might 
have been all very well when we were children; but now we are of 
an age to judge for ourselves. At eighteen, you can choose which 
you will stay with. Oh, younger than that. There have been 
several trials in the papers. No one can force Frances to go any- 
where she does not like, at her age. 

‘‘ I wish,” he said, with a little irritation, restrained by polite- 
ness, for Constance was still a young-lady visitor to her father, 
“ that you would leave this question to be discussed afterward. 
Your sister was right, Frances — after breakfast — after I have had 
a little time to think of it. I can not come to any decision all at 
once.” 

” That is a great deal better,” said Constance, approvingly. 
“ One can’t tell all in a moment. Frances is like mamma in that, 
too. She requires you to know your own mind — to sfw Yes or No 
at once. You and I are very like each other, papa. I shall never 
hurry your decision, or ask you to settle a thing in a moment. But 
these cutlets are getting quite cold. Do have some before they are 
spoiled.” 

Waring had no mind for the cutlets, to which he helped himself 
mechanically. He did not like to look at Frances, who sat silent, 
with her hands clasped on the table, pale, but with a light in her 
eyes. The voice of Constance running on, forming a kind of veil 
for the trouble and confusion in his own mind, and doubtless in 
that of her sister, was half a relief and half an aggravation; he was 
grateful for it, yet irritated by it. He felt himself to play a very 
poor figure in the transaction altogether, as he had felt ever since 
she arrived. Frances, whom he had regarded as a child, had 
sprung up into a judge, into all the dignity of an injured person, 
whose right to complain of the usage to which she had been sub- 
jected no one could deny. And when he stole a furtive glance at 
her pale face, her head held high, the new light that burned in her 
eyes, he felt that she was fully aware of the wrong he had done 
her, and that it would not be so easy to dictate what she was to do, 
as everybody up to this moment had supposed. He saw, or thought 
he saw, resistance, indignation in the gleam that had been awakened 
in Frances’ dove’s eyes. And his heart fell — yet rose also — for how 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


79 


could he constrain her, if she refused to c^o? He had no right to 
constrain her. Her mother might complain; but it would not be 
his doing. On the other side, it would be shameful, pitiable on his 
part to go back from his word — to acknowledge to his wife that he 
could not do what he had pledged himself to do. 

In every way it was an uncomfortable breakfast, all the forms of 
which he followed, partly for the sake of Constance, partly for that 
of Domenico. But Frances eat nothing, he could see. ' He pro* 
longed the meal, through a sort of fear of the interview afterward, 
of what he must say to her, and of what she should reply. He felt 
ashamed of his reluctance to encounter this young creature, whom 
a few days ago he had smiled at as a child ; and ashamed to look her 
in the face, to explain and argue with, and entreat, where he had 
been always used to tell her to do this and that, without the faint* 
est fear that she would disobey him. If even he had been left to 
tell her himself of all the circumstances, to make her aware gradu- 
ally of all that he had kept fiom her (for her good), to show her 
now how his word was pledged! But even this had been taken out 
of his hands. 

All this time no one talked but Constance, who went on with an 
occasional remark and with her meal, for which she had a good ap- 
petite. “I wish you would eat something, Frances,” she said. 
“ You need not begin to punish jourself at once. I feel it dread- 
fully, for it is all my fault. It is I who ought to lose my break- 
fast, not you. If you will take a few hints from me, I don’t think 
you will find it so bad. Or perhaps, if we all lay our heads to- 

f ether, we may see some way out of it. Papa knows the law, and 
know the English side, and you know what you think yourself. 
Let us talk it all over, and perhaps we may see our way. ’ ’ 

To this Frances made no reply save a little inclination of her 
head, and sat with her eyes shining, with a certain proud air of 
self-control and self-support, which was something quite new to 
her. When the uncomfortable repast could be prolonged no longer 
she was the first to get up. “ If you do not mind,” she said, “ I 
want to speak to papa by himself. ’ ’ 

Constance had risen, too. She looked with an air of surprise at 
her little sister. “Oh, if you like,” she said; “but I think you 
will find that I can be of use.” 

“ If you are going to the book-room, I will come with you, papa,” 
said Frances; but she did not wait for any reply; she opened the 
door and walked before him into that place of refuge, where he had 
been sheltering himself all these days. Constance gave him an in- 
quiring look, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. 

“ She is on her hmh-horse, and she is more like mamma than 
ever, but I suppose I may come all the same. ” 

He wavered a moment; he would have been glad of her inter- 
position, even though it irritated him; but he had a whimsical sense 
of alarm in his mind, which he could not get over. He was afraid 
qf Frances — “which was one of the most comical things in the world. 
He shook his head, and followed humbly into the book-room, and 
himself closed {he door upon the intruder. Frances had seated her- 
self already at his table, in the seat which she always occu- 
pied when she came to consult him about the dinner, or about 


80 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIIS'ST ITSELF. 


something out of the usual round which Mariuccia had asked 
for. To see her seated there, and to feel that the door was 
closed against all intrusion, made Waring feel as if all this dis- 
turbance was a dream. How good the quiet had been; the calm 
days, which nothing interfered with; the little house-keeper, whose 
child-like prudence and wisdom were so quaint, whose simple obe- 
dience was so ready, who never, save in respect to the spese, set up 
her own will or way. His heart grew very soft as he sat down and 
looked at her. No, he said to himself; he would not break that old 
bond; he would not compel his little girl to leave him, send her out 
as a sacrifice. He would rather stand against all the wives in the 
world. 

“ Papa,” said Frances, “ a great deal of harm has been done by 
keeping me ignorant. I want you to show me mamma’s letter. 
Unless I see it, how can I know?” 

This pulled him up abruptly and checked the softening mood. 
” Your mother’s letter,” he said, ” goes over a great deal of old 
ground. I don’t see that it could do you any good. It appears, I 
promised — what Constance told you, with her usual coolness — that 
one of you should be always left with her. Perhaps that was fool- 
ish.” 

“ Surely, papa, it was just.” 

“ Well, I thought so at the time. I wanted to do what was right. 
But there was no right in the matter. I had a perfect right to take 
you both away, to bring you up as I pleased. It would have been 
better, perhaps, had I done what the law authorized ' me to do. 
However, that need not be gone into now. What your sister said 
was quite true. You are at an age when you are supposed to judge 
for yourself, and nobody in the world can force you to go where 
you don’t want to go.” 

” But if you promised; and if — my mother trusted to your prom- 
ise?” There was something more solemn in that title, than to say 
” mamma.” It seemed easier to apply it to the unknown. 

” I won’t have you made a sacrifice of, on my account,” he said, 
hastily. 

He was surprised by her composure, by that unwonted light in 
her eyes. She answered him with great gravity, slowly, as if con- 
scious of the importance of her conclusion. ” It would be no 
sacrifice,” she said. 

Waring, there could be no doubt, was very much startled. He 
could not believe his ears. “No sacrifice? Do you mean to say 
that you want to leave me?” he cried. 

” No, papa; that is, I did not. I knew nothing. But now that 
I know, if my mother wants me, I will go to her. It is my duty. 
And I should like it,” she added, after a pause. 

Waring was dumb with surprise and dismay. He stared at her, 
scarcely able to believe that she could understand what she was say- 
ing. He, who had been afraid to suggest anything of the kind, 
who had thought of Andromeda and the virgins who were sacrificed 
to the dragon. He gazed aghast at this new aspect af the face with 
which he was so familiar, the uplifted head and shining eyes. He 
could not believe that this was Frances, his always docile, submis- 
sive, unemancipated girl. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


81 

“ Papa,” she said, ” everything seems changed, and I, too. I 
want to know my mother; I want to see — how other people live.” 

” Other people!” He was glad of an outlet for his irritation. 
“ What have we to do with other people? If it had not been for 
this unlucky arrival, you would never have known.” 

“ I must have known some time,” she said. ” And do you think 
it right that a girl should not know her mothei — when sue has a 
mother? I want to go to her, papa.” 

He flung out of his chair with an angry movement, and took up 
the keys which lay on his table, and opened a small cabinet which 
stood in the corner of the room, Frances watching him all the time 
■until the greatest attention. Out of this he brought a small packet 
of letters, and threw them to her with a movement which, for so 
gentle a man, was almost violent. ” I kept these back for your 
good, not to disturb your mind. You may as well have them, 
since they belong to you — now,” he said. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

” Come out for a walk, papa,” Constance said. 

“ What! in the heat of the day? You think you are in England.” 

“ No, indeed. I wish I did — at least, that is not what I mean. 
But I wish you did not think it necessary to stay in a place like 
this. Why should you shut yourself out from the world? You 
are very clever, papa.” 

” Who told vou so? You can not have found that out by your 
own unassisted judgment.” 

“A great many people have told me. I have always known. 
You seem to have made a mystery aboul us, but we never made 
any mystery about you; for one thing, of course, we couldn’t; for 
everybody Knew. But if you chose to go back to England — ” 

” I shall never go back to England. ” 

” Oh,” said Constance, with a laugh, ” never is a long day.” 

” So long a day, that it is a pity you should link your fortunes to 
mine, my dear. Frances has been brought up to it; but your case 
is quite different; and you see even she catches at the first oppor- 
tunity of getting away. ” 

“You are scarcely ^'ust to Frances,” said Constance, with her 
usual calm. “ You might have said the same thing of me. I took 
the first opportunity also. To know that one has a father, whom 
one never remembers to have seen, is very exciting to the imagina- 
tion; and just in so much as one has been disappointed in the parent 
one knows, one expects to find perfection in the parent one has 
never seen. Anything that you don’t know is better than every- 
thing you do know,” she added, with the air of a philosopher. 

“lam afraid, in that case, acquaintance has been fatal to your 
ideal.” 

“ Not exactly,” she said. “ Of course, you are quite different 
from what I supposed. But I think we might get on well enough, 
if you please. Do come out. If we keep in the shade it is not 
really very hot. It is often hotter in London where nobody thinks 


82 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


of staying indoors. If we are to live together, don’t you think you 
must begin by giving in to me a little, papa?” 

” Not to the extent of getting a sun-stroke.” 

“ In March!” she cried, with a tone of mild derision. “ Let me 
come into the book- room, then. You think if Frances goes that 
you will never be able to get on with me.” 

“ My thoughts have not gone so far as that. I may have believed 
that a young lady fresh from all the gayeties of London — ” 

” But so tired of them; and very glad of a little novelty, however 
it presents itself . ” 

“Yes, so long as it continues novel. But the novelty of making 
the spese in a village, and looking shaiply after every centesimo that 
is asked for an artichoke — ’ ’ 

“ The spese means the daily expenses? I should not mind that. 
And Mariuccia is far more entertaining than an ordinary English 
cook. And the neighbors — well, the neighbors afford some oppor- 
tunities for fun. Mrs. Gaunt, is it? expects her youngest boy. And 
then there is Tasie.” 

The name of Tasie brought a certain relaxation to the muscles of 
Waring’ s face. He gave a glance round him, to see that all the 
doors were closed. “ I must confide in you, Constance; though, 
mind, Frances must not share it. I sitting here, simply as you see 
me, have been supposed dangerous to Tasie ’s peace of mind. Is 
not that an excellent joke?” . 

I don’t see that it is a joke at all,” said Constance, without 
even a smile. “ Why, Tasie is antediluvian. She must be nearly 
as old as you are. Any old gentleman might be dangerous to 
Tasie. Tell me something more wonderful than that.^‘ 

“ Oh, that is how it appears to you?” said Waring His laugh 
came to a sudden end, broken off, so to speak, in half, and an air 
of portentous gravity came over his face. He turned over the papers 
on the table before him, as with a sudden thought. “ By the way, 

I forgot I had something to do this afternoon,’' ne said. *' Before 
dinner, perhaps, we may take a stroll, if the sun is not so hot. But 
this is my working-time, ’ ’ he added, witn a stiff smila 

Constance could not disregard so plain a him. She rose irp quick- 
ly. She had taken Frances’ chair, which he had forgiven her at 
first; but it made another note against her now. 

“ What have I done?” she said to herself raising her eyebrows, 
angry, and yet half amused by her dismissal. Frances had gone to 
her room, too, and was not to be disturbed, as her sister had seen 
by the look of her face. She felt herself, as she would have said, 
very much “ out of it,” as she wandered round the deserted 
looking at everything in it with a care suggested by her solitude 
rather than any real interest. She looked at the big high-colored 
water-pots, turned into decorations, one could imagine against their 
will, which stood in the corners of the room, and which were Mrs. 
Durant’s present to Frances; and at the blue Savona vases, with 
the names of medicines, reM or imaginaiy betraying their original 
intention; and all the other decorative scraps — the little old pictures, ; 
the pieces of needle- work and brocade. They were pretty wdien she ■ 
looked at them, though she had not perceived their beauty at the 
first glance. There were more decorations of the same description 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


83 


in the ante-room, which gave her a little additional occupation; and 
then she strolled into the loggia and threw herself into the long 
chair. She had a book, one of the novels she had bought on the 
journey. But Constance was not accustomed to much reading. 
She got through a chapter or two; and then she looked round upon 
the view and mused a little, and then returned to her novel. The 
second time she threw it down and went back to the drawing-room, 
and had another look at the Savona pots. She had thought how 
well they would look on a certain shelf at “ home.” And then she 
stopped and took herself to task. What did she mean by home? 
This was home. She was going to live here; it was to be her place 
in the world. What she had to do was to think of the decorations 
here, and whether she could add to them, not of vacant corners in 
another place. Finally, she returned again to the loggia, and sat 
down once more rather drearily. 

There had never occurred a day in her experience in which she 
had been so long without ‘ ‘ something to do. ’ ’ Something to do 
meant something that was amusing, something to pass the time, 
somebody to entertain, or perhaps, if nothing else was possible, to 
quarrel with. To sit alone and look round her at ” the view,” to 
hav^e not a creature to say a word to, and nothing to engage herself 
with but a book; and nothing to look forward to but this same 
thing repeated three hundred and sixty-five days in the year! The 
prospect, the thought, made Constance shiver. It could not be. 
She must do something to break the spell. But what was there to 
do? The spese were all made for to-day, the dinner was ordered; 
and she knew very little either about the speae or the dinner. She 
wo.dd have to learn, to think of new dishes, and write them down 
in a little book, as Frances did. Her dinners, she said to herself, 
must be better than those of Frances. But when was she to begin, 
and how was she to do it? In the meantime she went and fetched 
a shawl, and while the sun blazed straight on the loggia from the 
south, to which it was open in front, and left only one scrap of 
shade in a corner scarcely enough to shelter the long chair, fell 
asleep there, finding that she had nothing else to do. 

Frances had gone to her room with her packet of letters. She 
had not thought what they were, nor what had been the meaning 
of what her father said when he gave them to her. She took them 
— no, not to her own room, but to the blue room, in which there 
was so little comfort. Her little easy-chair, her writing-table, all 
the things with which she was at home, belonged to Constance 
now. She sat down, or rather up, in a stiff upright chair, and 
opened her little packet upon her bed. To her astonishment she 
found that it contained letters addressed to herself, unopened. The 
first of them was printed in large letters, as for the eyes of a child. 
They were very simple, not very long, concluding invariably with 
one phrase: ” Dear, write to me.” ” Write to me, my darling.” 
Frances read them with her eyes full of tears, with a rising wave of 
passion and resentment which seemed to suffocate her. He had 
kept them all back. What harm could they have done? Why 
should she have been kept in ignorance, and made to appear like a 
heartless child, like a creature without sense or feeling? Half for 
her mother, half for herself, the girl’s heart swelled with a kind of 


84 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


fury. She had nol been ready to judge her father even after she 
had been aware of his sin against her. She had still accepted what 
he did as part of him, bidding her own mind be silent, hushing all 
criticism. Bu‘; when she read these little letters her passion over- 
flowed. How dared he to ignore all her rights, to allow herself to 
be misrepresented, to give a false idea of her? This was the most 
poignant pang of all. Without being selfish, it is still impossible to 
feel a wrong of this kind to another so acutely as to yourself. He 
had deprived her of the comfort of knowing that she had a mother, 
of communicating with her, of retaining some hold upon that 
closest of natural friends. That injury she had condoned and for- 
given; but when Frances saw how her father’s action must have 
shaped the idea of herself in the mind of her mother, there was a 
moment in which she felt that she could not forgive him. If she 
had received year by year these tender letters, yet never had been 
moved to answer one of them, what a creature must she have been, 
devoid of heart or common feeling, or even good taste, that super- 
ficial grace by which the want of better things is concealed! She 
was more horrified by this thought than by any other discovery she 
could have made. She seemed to see the Frances whom her mother 
knew — a little ill-conditioned child; a small, petty, ungracious, un- 
loving girl. Was this what had been thought of her? And it was 
all his fault — all her father’s fault! 

At first, she could see no excuse for him. She would not allow 
to herself that any love for her, or desire to retain her affection, was 
at the bottom of the concealment. She got a sheet of paper, and 
began to write with passionate vehemence, pouring forth all her 
heart. * ‘ Imagine that I have never seen your dear letters till to- 
day — never till to-day! and what must you think of me, ” she wrote. 
But when she had put Iier whole heart into it, working a miracle, 
and making the dull paper to glow and weep, there came a change 
over her thoughts. She had kept his secret till now. She had not 
betrayed even to Constance the ignorance in which she had been 
kept; and should she change her course, and betray him now?” 

As she came to think it over she felt that she herself blamed her 
father bitterly, that he had fallen from the pedestal on which to her 
he had stood all her life. Yet the thought that others should be 
conscious of this degradation was temble to her. When Constance 
spoke lightly of him it was intolerable to Frances, and the mother 
of whom she knew nothing, of whom she knew only that she was 
her mother, a woman who had grievances of her own against him, 
who would be perhaps pleased, almost pleased to have proof that 
he had done this wrong! Frances paused with the fervor of indig- 
nation still in her heart, to consider how she should bear it, if this 
were so. It was all selfish, she said to herself, growing more miser- 
able as she fought with the conviction that whether in condemning 
him or covering what he had done, herself was her first thought. 
She had to choose now between vindicating herself at his cost, or 
suffering continued misconception to screen him. Which should she 
do? Slowly she folded up the letter she had written and put it 
away, not destroying, but saving it, as leaving it still possible to 
carry out her first intention. Then she wrote another shorter, half- 
fictitious letter, in whicli the bitterness in her heart seemed to take 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIISTST ITSELF. 


85 


the form of reproach to the fate which was altering her life, and 
her consent to obey her mother’s call was forced and sullen. But 
this letter was no sooner written than it was torn to pieces. What 
was she to do? She ended, after much thought, by destroying also 
her first letter, and writing as follows ; 

“ Dear Mother, — To see my sister and to hear that you want me, 
is very bewildering and astonishing to me. I am very ready to come, 
if, indeed, you will forgive me all that you must think so bad in 
me, and let me try as well as I can to please you. Indeed, I desire 
to do so with all my heart. I have understood very little, and I 
have been thoughtless, and, you will think, without any natural 
affection; but this is because I was so ignorant, and had nobody to 
tell me. Forgive me, dear mamma. I do not feel as if I dare write 
to you now and call you by that name. As soon as we can consider 
and see how it is best for me to travel, I will come. I am not clever 
and beautiful, like Constance;- but indeed I do wish to please you 
with all my heart. Frances.” 

This was all she could say. She put it up in an envelope, feeling 
confused with her long thinking and with all the elements of 
change that were about her, and took it back to the book-room to 
ask for the address. She had felt that she could not approach her 
father with composure or speak to him of ordina^' matters; but it 
made a little formal bridge, as it were, from one kind of intercourse 
to another to ask him for that address. 

” Will you please tell me where mamma lives?” she said. 

Waring turned round quickly to look at her. “So you have 
written already?” 

” Oh, papa, can you say ‘ already ’? What kind of creature must 
she think I am, never to have sent a word all these years?” 

He paused a moment and then said; ” You have told her, I sup- 
pose?” 

‘ ‘ I have told her nothing except that I am ready to come when- 
ever we can arrange how I am to travel. Papa,” she said, 'with one 
of those sudden relentings which come in the way of our sternest 
displeasure with those we love, “Oh, papa!” laying her hand on 
his arm, “ why did you do it? I am obliged to let her think that 
I have been without a heart all my life — for I can not bear it when 
any one blames you. ’ ’ 

“ Frances,” he said, with a response equally sudden, putting his 
arm round her, “ what will my life be without you? I have always 
trusted in you, dependedron j'ou without knowing it. Let Constance 
go back to her, and stay you with me. ’ ’ 

Frances had not been accustomed to many demonstrations of 
affection, and this moved her almost beyond her power of self-con- 
trol. She put down her head upon her father’s shoulder and cried: 
“ Oh, if w^e could only go back a week; but we can’t; no, nor even 
half a day. Things that might have been this morning, can’t be 
now, papa! I was very, very angry — oh, in a rage, 'when I read 
these letters. Why did you keep them from me? Wh}' did you 
keep my mother from me? I wrote and told her everything; and 
then I tore up my letter and told her nothing. But I can never be 


86 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


the same again,” said the girl, shaking her head with that convic- 
tion of the unchangeahleness of a first trouble which is so strong^ 
in youth. ” Now, I know what it is to be one thing and appear 
another; and to bear blame and suffer for what you have not de- 
served.” 

Waring repented his appeal to his child. He repented even the 
sudden impulse which had induced him to make it. He withdrew 
his arm from her with a sudden revulsion of feeling, and a recollec- 
tion that Constance was not emotional, but a young woman of the 
world, who would understand many things which Frances did not 
understand. He withdrew his arm, and said somewhat coldly: 
” Show me what address you have put upon your mother’s letter. 
You must not make any mistake in that.” 

Frances dried her eyes hastily, and felt the check. She put her 
letter before him without a word. It was addressed to Mrs. Waring, 
no more. 

” I thought so,” he said, 'with ‘a laugh, which sounded harsh to 
the excited girl; ” and to be sure, j^ou had no means of knowing. 
I told you your mother was a much more important person than 1. 
You will see the difference between wealth and poverty, as well as 
between a father’s sway and a mother’s, when you go to Eaton 
Square. This is your mother’s address.” He wrote it hastily on 
a piece of paper and pushed it toward her. Frances had received 
many shocks and surprises in the course of these days, but scarcely 
one which was more startling to her simple mind than this. The 
paper which her father gave her did not bear his name. It was 
addressed to Lady Markham, Eaton Square, London. Frances 
turned to him an astonished gaze. “ That is where — mamma is 
living?” she said. 

” That is — your mother’s name and address,” he answered, cold- 
ly. “ I told you she was a greater personage than I.” 

“ But, papa — ” 

‘‘You are not aware,” he said, ” that, according to the beautiful 
arrangements of society, a woman who makes a second marriage be- 
low her is allowed to keep her first husband’s name. It is so, how- 
ever. Lady Markham chose to avail herself of that privilege. That 
is all, I suppo^? You can send your letter without any further 
reference to me.” 

Frances went away without a word, treading softly, with a sort 
of suspense of life and thought. She could not tell how she felt, 
or what it meant. She knew nothing about the arrangements of 
society. Did it mean something wrong, something that was im- 
possible? Frances could not tell how that could be, that your father 
and mother should not only live apart, but have different names. A 
vague horror took possession of her mind. She -w^ent back to her 
room again, and stared at that strange piece of paper without know- 
ing what to make of it. Lady Markham! It was not to that per- 
sonage she had written her poor little simple letter. How could 
she say mother to a great lady, one who was not even of the same 
name? She was far too ignorant to know how little importance 
was to be attached to this. To Frances a name was so much. She 
had never been taught anything but the primitive symbols, the in- 
nocently conventional alphabet of life. This new discovery filled 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAIi^ST ITSELF. 


87 

her with a chill horror. She took her letter out of its envelope 
with the intention of destroying that, too, and letting silence, that 
silence which had reigned over lier life so long, fall again and for- 
ever between her and the mother whose very name was not hers. 
But as this impulse swept over her her eye caught one of the first 
■of the little letters which had revealed this unknown woman to her. 
It was written in very large letters, such as a child might read, and 
in little words. “My darling, write to me; I long so for you, 
^ Your loving mother.” There was no viscountess there. Her sim- 
. pie mind was swept by contending impulses, like strong winds 
carrying her now one way, now another. And unless it should be 
that unknown mother herself, there was nobody in the world to 
whom she could turn for counsel. Her heart revolted against Con- 
stance, and her father had been vexed she could not tell how. She 
was incapable of betraying the secrets of the family to any one beyond 
its range. What was she to do? 

And all this because the mother, the source of so much dis- 
turbance in her little life, was Lady Markliam, and not Mrs. Waring! 
But this, to the ignorance and simplicity of Frances, was the most 
incomprehensible mystery of all. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Waring went out with Constance when the sun got low in the 
skies. He took a much longer walk than was at all usual, and 
X)ointed out to her many points of view. The paths that ran among 
the olive woods, the little terraces which cut up the sides of the 
hills, the cool gray foliage and gnarled trunks, the’clumps of flowers 
— garden flowers in England, but here as wild, and rather more 
common than blades of grass — delighted her; and her talk delighted 
Mm. He had not gone so far for months; nor had he, he thought, 
for years found the time go so fast. It was xery different from 
Frances’ mild attempts at conversation. “ Do you think, papa? Do 
you remember, papa?” — so many references to events so trifling, 
and her little talk about Tasie’s plans and Mrs. Gaunt’s news. 
Constance took him boldly into her life and told him what was going 
on in the world. Ah, the world that was the only world. He had 
said in his bitterness, again and again, that Society was as limited 
as any village, and duchesses curiously like washer- wonien; but 
when he found himself once more on the edge of that great tumult 
of existence, he was like the old war-horse that neighs at the sound 
of the battle. lie began to ask her questions about the people he 
had known. He had always been a shy, proud man, and had never 
thrown himself into the stream; but still there had been people who 
had known him and liked him, or whom he had liked; and gradu- 
ally he awakened into animation and pleasure. 

When they met the old general taking his stroll, too, before din- 
ner, that leathern old Indian was dazzled by the bright creature 
who walked along between them, almost as tali as the two men, 
with her graceful careless step and independent ways, not deferring 
to them, as the other ladies did, but leading the conversation. Even 
General Gaunt began to think whether there was any one whom he 


88 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


could speak of, any one lie liad known, whom, perhaps, this young 
exponent of society might know. She knew everyliody. Even 
princes and princesses had no mystery for her. She told them what 
everybody said, with an air or knowing better than everybody, 
which in her meant no conceit or presumption, as in other young 
persons. Constance was quite unconscious of the possibility of 
being thus judged. She was not self-conscious at all. She was 
pleased to Mng out her news for the advantage of the seniors. 
Frances was none the wiser when her sister told her the change that 
had come over the Grandmaisons, or how Lord Sunbury’s marriage 
had been brought about, and why people now had altered their 
houses for the Row. Frances listened; but she had never heard 
about Lord Sunbury’s marriage, nor why it should shock the ele- 
gant public. But the gentlemen remembered his father; or they 
knew how young men commit themselves without intending it. It 
is not to be supposed that there was anything at all risque in Con- 
stance’s talk. She touched, indeed, upon the edge of scandals 
which had been in the newspapers, and therefore were known even 
to people in the Riviera; but she did it with the most absolute in- 
nocence, either not knowing or not understanding the evil. “ I be- 
lieve there was something wrong, but I don’t know what — mamma 
would never tell me, ’ ’ she said. Her conversation was like a very 
light graceful edition of a society paper — not then begun to be — 
with all the nastiness and almost all the malice left out. But not 
quite all; there was enough to be piquant. “lam afraid I am a 
little ill-natured; but I don’t like that man,” she would say now 
and then. When she said, “ I don’t like that woman,” the gentle- 
men laughed. She was conscious of having a little success, and she 
was pleased, too. Frances perhaps might be a better housekeeper; 
but Constance could not but think that in the equally important 
work of amusing papa she would be more successful than Frances. 
It was not much of a triumph, perhaps, for a girl who had known 
so many; but yet it was the only one as yet possible in the position 
in which she now was. 

“ I suppose it is settled that Frances is to go?” she said, as Gen- 
eral Gaunt took the way to his bungalow, and she and her father 
turned toward home. 

“ She seems to have settled it for herself,” he said. 

“ I ani always repeating she is so like mamma — that is exactly 
what mamma would have done. They are very positive. You and 
I, papa, are not positive at all. ’ ’ 

“ I think, my dear, that coming off as you did by yourself, vras 
very positive indeed— and the first step in the universal turning up- 
side down which has ensued.” 

“ I hope you are not sorry I came?” 

“ No, Constance. I am very glad to have you.” And this -was 
quite true, although he had said to Frances something that sounded 
very different. Both things were true — both that he wished she had 
never left her mother; that he wished she might return to her 
mother, and leave Frances with him as of old; and that he was 
very glad to have her here. 

“ If I were to go back, would not everything settle down just as 
it was before?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 89 

Then he thought of what Frances, taught ])y the* keenness of a 
personal experience, had said to him a few hours ago. “ No,” he 
said; “nothing can ever be as it was before. We never can go 
back to what has been, whether the event that has changed it has 
been happy or sad. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, surely sometimes,” said Constance. “ That is a dreadful 
way to talk of anything so trifling as my visit. It could not make 
any real difference, because all the facts are just the same as they 
were before.” 

To this he made no reply. She had no way, thanks to Frances, 
of finding out how different the position was. And she went on, 
after a pause: “ Have you settled how she is to go?” 

“ I have not even thought of that.” 

“ But, papa, you must think of it. She can not go unless you 
manage it for her. . Markham heard of those people coming, and 
that made it quite easy for me. If Markham were here — ” 

“ Heaven forbid.” 

“ I have always heard you were prejudiced about Markham. I 
don’t think he is very safe myself. I have warned Frances, what- 
ever she does, not to let herself get into his hands.” 

“ Frances in Markham’s hands! That is a thing I could not per- 
mit for a moment. Your mother may have a right to Frances’ so- 
ciety, but none to throw her into the companionship of — ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Her brother, papa. ’ ’ 

“Her brother! Her step-brother, if you please — which I think 
scarcely a relationship at all. ’ ’ 

Waring’s prejudices, when they were roused, were strong. His 
daughter looked up in amazement at his sudden passion, the frown 
on his face, and the fire in his eye. 

“ You forget that I have been brought up with Markham,” she 
said. “ He is wy brother; and he is a very good brother. There 
is nothing he will not do for me. I only warned Frances because — 
because she is different; because — ” 

“Because — she is a girl who ought not to breathe the same air 
with a young reprobate — a young — ’ ’ 

“ Papa! You are mistaken. I don’t know what Markham may 
have been; but he is not a reprobate. It was because Frances does 
not understand chaff, you know. She would think he was in ear- 
nest, and he is never in earnest. She would take him seriously, 
and nobody takes him seriously. But if you think he is bad there 
is nobody who thinks that. He is not bad; he only has ways of 
thinking — ” 

“ Which I hope my daughters will never share,” said Waring, 
with a little formality. 

Constance raised her head as if to speak, but then stopped, giving 
him a look which said more than words, and added no myre. 

In the meantime, Frances had been left alone. She had directed 
her letter, and left it to be posted. That step was taken, and could 
no more be thought over. She was glad to have a little of her time 
to herself, which once had been all to herself. She did not like as 
j’-et to broach the subject of her departure to IMariuccia; but she 
thought it all over very anxiously, trying to find some way which 
would take the burden of the household off the shoulders of Con- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


90 

• « 

stance, who was not used to it. She thoiight the best thing to do 
would be to write out a series of menus, which Mariuccia might 
suggest to Constance, or carry out upon her own responsibility, 
whichever was most practicable; and she resolved that various little 
offices might be turned over to Domenico without interfering with 
her father’s comfort. All these arrangements, though she turned 
them over very soberly in her mind, had a bewildering, dizzying 
effect upon her. She thought that it was as if she were going to 
die. When she went away out of the narrow inclosure of this 
world, which she knew, it would be to something so entirely ► 
strange to her that it would feel like another life. It would be as 
if she had died. She would not know anything; the surroundings, 
the companions, the habits, all would be strange. She would have 
to leave utterly behind her everything she had ever known. The 
thought was not melancholy, as is in almost all cases the thought 
of leaving “ the warm precincts of the cheerful day;” it made her 
heart swell and rise with an anticipation which was full of excite- 
meni and pleasure, but which at the same time had the effect of 
making her brain swim. 

She could not make to herself any picture of the world to which 
she was going. It would be softer, finer, more luxurious than any- 
thing she knew; but that was all. Of her mother she did try to 
form some idea. She was acquainted only with mothers who were 
old. Mrs. Durant, who wore a cap, encircling her face, and tied 
under her chin; and Mrs. Gaunt, who had grandchildren who were 
as old as Frances. Her own mother could not be like either of 
these; but still she would be old, more or less, would wrap herself 
up when she went out, would have gray, or even perhaps white 
hair (which Frances liked in an old lady; Mrs. Durant wore a front, 
and Mrs. Gaunt was suspected of dyeing her hair), and would not 
care to move about more than she could help. She would go out 
“into society” beautifully dressed with lace and jewels; and 
Frances grew more dizzy than ever, trying to imagine herself stand- 
ing behind this magnificent old figure^ like a maid of honor behind 
a queen. But it was difficult to imagine the details of a picture so 
completely vaghe. There was a general sense of splendor and 
novelty, a vague expectation of something delightful, which it was 
beyond her power to realize, but no more. 

She had roused herself from the vague excitement of these 
dreams, which were very absorbing, though there was so little 
solidity in them, with a sudden fear that she was losing all the 
afternoon, and that it was time to prepare for dinner. She went to 
the corner of the loggia which commanded the road, to look out for 
Constance and her father. The road swept along below the Punto, 
leading to the town; and a smaller path traversing the little height, 
climbed mp ward to the platform on which the Palazzo stood. 
Frances did not at first remark, as in general every villager does, 
an unfamiliar figure making its way up'^this path. Her father and 
sister were not visible, and it was for them she was looking. Pres- 
ently, however, her eye was caught by the stranger, no doubt an 
English tourist, with a glass in his eye — a little man, with a soft 
gray felt hat, which, when he lifted his head to inspect the irregular 
structure of the old town, gafve him something the air of a moving 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


91 


mushroom. His movements were somewhat irregular, as his eyes 
were fixed upon the walls, and did not serve to guide his feet, 
which stumbled continually on the inequalities of the path. His 
progress began to amuse her, as he came nearer, his head raised, 
his eyes fixed upon the buildings before him, his person executing 
a series of undulations like a ship in a storm. He climbed up at 
last to the height, and coming up to some women who were sealed 
on the stone bench opposite to Frances on the loggia, began to ask 
them for instructions as to how he was to go. 

The little scene amused Frances. The women were knitting, 
with a little cluster of children about them, scrambling upon the 
bench or on the dusty pathway at their feet. The stranger took off 
his big hat and addressed them with a few words and many gest- 
ures. She heard casa and Ingleae, but nothing else that w^as com 
prehensible. The women did their best to understand, and replied 
volubly. But here the little tourist evidently could not follow\ He 
was like so many tourist visitors, capable of asking his question, 
but incapable of understanding the answer given him. Then there 
arose a shrill little tempest of laughter, in w’hich he joined, and of 
which Frances herself could not resist the contagion. Perhaps a 
faint echo from the loggia caught the ear of one of the women, who 
knew her woll, and wdio immediately pointed her out to the stranger. 
The little man turned round and made a few steps toword the 
Palazzo. He took off the mushroom top of gray felt, and presented 
to her an ugly, little, vivacious countenance. “ I beg you ten thou- 
sand pardons,” he said; ” but if you speak English, as I understand 
them to say, will you be so very kind as to direct me to the house 
of Mr. Waring? Ah, I am sure you are both English and kind! 
They tell me he lives near here.” 

Frances looked dowui from her height demurely, suppressing the 
too-ready laugh, to listen to this queer little man; but his question 
took her very much by surprise. Another stranger asking for Mr. 
Waring! But, oh, so very different a one from Constance — an odd, 
little, ugly man, looking up at her in a curious one-sided attitude, 
with his glass in his eye. ” He lives here,,” she said. 

” What? Where?” He had replaced his mushroom on his head, 
and he cocked up tow^ard her one ear, the ear upon the opposite side 
to the eye which w^ore the glass. 

' ” Here!” cried Frances, pointing to the house, with a laugh wdiich 

she could not restrain. 

The stranger raised his eyebrow^s so much and so suddenly that 
his glass fell. “Oh!” he cried— but the biggest O, round as the 
O of Giotto, as the Italians say. He paused there some time, look- 
ing at her, his mouth retaining the shape of that exclamation; and 
then he cast an investigating glance along the wall, and asked-: 
” How am I to get in?” 

” Nunziata, show^ the gentleman the door,” cried Frances to one 
of the women on the bench. She lingered a moment, to look again 
down the road for her father. It was true that nothing could be so 
wonderful as what had already happened; but it seemed that sur- 
prises were not yet over. Would this be some one else w'ho had 
knowm him, wdio w'as arriving full of the tale that had been told, 
and Avas a mystery no longer, some ” old friend ” like Mr. Manner- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


\)2 

ing, who would not be satisfied without betraying the harmless her- 
mit, whom some chance had led him to discover? There was some 
bitterness in Frances’ thoughts. She had not remembered the 
Mannerings before, in the rush of other things to think of. The 
fat ruddy couple, so commonplace and so comfortable! Was it all 
their doing? Were they to blame for everything? for the conclu- 
sion of one existence, and the beginning of another? She went in to 
the drawing-room and sat down there, to be ready to receive the 
visitor. He could not be so important — that was impossible; there 
could be no new mystery to record. 

When the door opened and Domenico solemnly ushered in the 
stranger, Frances, although her tlioughts were not gay, could 
scarcely help laughing again. He carried his big gray mushroom 
top now in his hand; and the little round head which had been 
covered with it seemed incomplete without that thatch. Frances 
felt herself looking from the head to the hat with a ludicrous sense 
of this incompleteness. He had a small head, thinly covered with 
light hair, which seemed to grow in tufts like grass. His eyes 
twinkled keen, two very bright gray eyes, from the puckers of eye- 
lids which looked old, as if he had got them second-hand. There 
was a worn and wrinkled look about him altogether, carried out 
in his dress, and even in his boots, which suggested the same idea. 
An old man who looked young, or a young man who looked old. 
She could not make out which he was. He did not bow and hesi- 
tate, and announce himself as a friend of her father’s, as she ex- 
pected him to do, but came up to her briskly with a quick step, but 
a shuffle in his gait, 

“I suppose I must introduce myself,” he said; “though it is 
odd that we should need an introduction to each other, you and I. 
After the first moment, I should have known you anywhere. You 
are quite like my mother. Frances, isn’t it? And I’m Markliam, 
of course, you know.” 

“Markham!” cried Frances. She had thought she could never 
be suri^rised again, after all that had happened. But she felt her- 
self more astonished than ever now. 

“Yes, Markham. You think I am not much to look at, lean 
see. I am not generally admired at the first glance. Shake hands,. 
Frances. You don’t quite feel like giving me a kiss, I suppose, at 
the first otfsel? Never mind. We shall be very good friends, 
after a while.” 

He sat down, drawing a chair close to her. “I am very glad to 
find you by yourself. I like the looks of you. Where is Con? 
Taken possession of the governor, and left you alone to keep house, 
I should suppose?” 

*“ Constance has gone out to walk with papa. I had several things 
to do.” 

“ I have not the least doubt of it. That would be the usual dis- 
tribution of labor, if you remained together. Fan, my mother has 
sent me to fetch you home.” 

Frances drew a little further away. She gave him a look of 
vague alarm. The familiarity of the address troubled her. But 
when she looked at him again, her gravity gave way. He was such 
a queer, such a very queer little man. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 93 ' 

“ You may laugla if you like, my dear,” he said. “lam used 
to it. Providence — always the best judge, no doubt — has not given 
me an awe-inspiring countenance. It is hard upon my mother, who 
is a pretty woman. But I accept the position, for my part. This is 
a charming place. You have got a number of nice things. And 
those little sketches are very tolerable. Who did them? You? 
Waring, so far as I remember, used to draw very well himself. I 
am glad you draw; it will give you a little occupation. I like the 
looks of you, though 1 don’t think you admire me.” 

‘ ‘ Indeed, ’ ’ said Frances, troubled, “it is because I am so much 
surprised. Are you really — are you sure you are — ” 

He gave a little chuckle, which made lier start — an odd, comical, 
single note of laughter, very cordial and very droll, like the little 
man himself. 

“ I’ve got a .servant with me,” he said, “ down at the hotel, who 
knows that I go by the name of *Markham when I’m at home. I 
don’t know if that will satisfy you. But Con, to be sure, knows 
me, which will be better. You don’t hear any voice of nature 
saying within your breast, ‘ This is my long-lost brother ’? That’s 
a pity. But by and by, you’ll see, we’ll be very good friends.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t mean that I had any doubt. It is so great a sur- 
prise — one thing after another. ’ ’ 

‘ Now, answer me one question : Did you know anything about 
your family before Con came? Ah,” he said, catching her alarmed 
and wondering glance, ‘ ‘ I thought not. I have always said so ; he 
never told you. And it has all burst upon you in a moment, you 
poor little thing. But 3^ou needn’t be afraid of us. My mother 
has her faults; but she is a nice woman. You will like her. And 
I am very queer to look at, and many people think I have a screw 
loose. But I’m not bad to live with. Have you settled it with the 
governor? Has he made many objections? He ^ and I never drew 
well together. Perhaps j^ou know?” 

‘ ‘ He does not speak as if — he liked you. But I don’t know any- 
thing. I have not been told — much. Please don’t ask me things,” 
Frances cried. 

“ No, I will not. On the contrary. I’ll tell you everything. 
Con probably would put a spoke in my wdieel too. My dear little 
Fan, don’t mind any of them. Give me j^our little hand. I am 
neither bad nor good. I am very much what people make me. I 
am nasty with the nasty sometimes — more shame to me, and 
disagreeable with the disagreeable. But I am innocent with the 
innocent, ” he said with some earnestness; “ and that is what j^ou 
are, unless my eyes deceive me. You need not be afraid of me.” 

“I am not afraid,” said Frances, looking at him. Then she 
added, after a pause: “ Not of you, nor of any one. I have never 
met any bad people. I don’t believe any one would do me harm.”^ 

“ Nor I,” he said with a little fervor, patting her hand with his 
own. “ All the same,” he added, after a moment, “it is perhaps 
wise not to give them the chance. So I’ve come to fetch j^ou home.” 

Frances, as she became accustomed to this remarkable new mem- 
ber of her family, began immediately, after her fashion, to think of 
the material necessities of the case. She could not start with him 
at once on the journey; and in the meantime where should she put 


94 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


liim? The most natural thing seemed to be to withdraw again from 
the blue room, and take the little one behind, which looked out on 
the court. That would do, and no one need be any the wiser. She 
said with a little hesitation : “I must go now and see about your 
room.” 

“ Room!” he cried. “ Oh, no; there’s no occasion for a room. I 
wouldn’t trouble you for the world. I have got rooms at the hotel. 
I’ll not stay even, since daddy’s out, to meet him. You can tell 
him I’m here, and what I came for. If he wants to see me, he can 
look me up. I am very glad I have seen you. I’ll write to the 
mother to-night to say you’re quite satisfactory, and a credit to all 
your belongings; and I’ll come to-morrow 1o see Con; and in the 
meantime. Fan, you must settle when you are to come; for it is an 
awkward time for a man to be loafing about here.” 

He got up as he spoke, and stooping, gave her a serious brotherly 
kiss upon her forehead. “ I hope you and I will be very great 
friends,” he said. 

And then he was gone? Was he a dream only, an imagination? 
But he was not the sort of figure that imagination produces. No 
dream-man could ever be so comical to behold, could ever wear a 
coat so curiously wrinkled, or those boots, in the curves of which 
the dust lay as in the inequalities of the- dry and much-frequented 
road. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The walk with Constance, though he had set out upon it reluc- 
tantly, had done Waring great good. He was comparatively re- 
habilitated in his own eyes. Between her and him there was no 
embarrassment, no uneasy consciousness. She had paid him the 
highest compliment by taking refuge with him, flying to his pro- 
tection from the tyranny of her mother, and giving him thus a vic- 
tory as sweet as unexpected over that nearest yet furthest of all 
connections, that inalienable antagonist in life. He had been pain- 
fully put out of son assiette, as the French say. Instead of the easy 
superiority which he had held not only in his own house but in the 
limited society about, he had been made to stand at the bar, first by 
his own child, afterward by the old clergyman, for whom he enter- 
tained a kindly contempt. Both of these simple wits had called 
upon him 1o account for his conduct. It was the most extraordi- 
nary turning of the tables that ever had occurred to a man like him- 
self. And though he had spoken the truth when in that moment of 
melting he had taken his little girl into his arms and bidden her 
stay with him, he was yet glad now to get av^ay from Frances, to 
feel himself occupying his proper place with her sister, and to re- 
turn thus to a more natural state of affairs. The intercourse be- 
tween him and his child-companion had been closer than ever could, 
he believed, exist between him and any other human being whatso- 
ever; but it had been rent in twain by all the concealments which 
he was conscious of, by all the discoveries which circumstances had 
forced upon her. He could no longer be at his ease with her, ot she 
regard him as of old. The attachment was too deep, the interrup- 
tion too hard, to be reconcilable with that calm which is necessary 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


95 


to ordinary existence. Constance had restored him to herself by 
her pleasant indifference, her easy talk, her unconsciousness of 
everything' that was not usual and natural. He began to think that 
if Frances were hut away — since she wished to go — a new life 
might begin — a life in which there would be nothing below the sur- 
face, no mystery, which is a mistake in ordinary life. It would be 
difficult, no doubt, for a brilliiwt creature like Constance to content 
herself with the humdrum life which suited Frances; and whether 
she would condescend to look after his comforts, he did'not know. 
But so long as Mariuccia was there, he could not suffer much 
materially; and she was a very amusing companion, far more so 
than her sister. As he came back to the Palazzo, he was reconciled 
to himself. 

This comfortable state of mind, however, did not last long. 
Frances met them at the door with her face full of excitement. 
“ Did you meet him?” she said. “ You must have met him. He 
has not been g^ne ten minutes.” 

“ Meet whom? We met no one but the general.” 

“I think I know,” cried Constance. “I have been expecting 
him every day — Marldiam.” 

” He say^ he has come to fetch me, papa.” 

“Markham!” cried Waring. His face clouded over in a mo- 
ment. It is not easy to get rid of the past. He had accomplished 
it for a dozen years; and after a very bad moment, he thought he 
was about to shuffle it off again; but it was evident that in this he 
was premature. “ I will not allow you to go with Markham,” he 
said. “Don’t say anything more. Your mother ought to have 
known better. He is not an escort I choose for my daughter. ’ ’ 

“ Poor old Markham! he is a very nice escort,” said Constance, 
in her easy way. “There is no harm in him, papa. But never 
mind till after dinner, and then we can talk it over. You are 
ready. Fan? Oh, then I must fly. We have had a delightful walk. 

I never knew anything about fathers before; they are the most 
charming companions,” she said, kissing her hand to him as she 
went away. But this did not mollify the angry man. There rose 
up before him the recollection of a hundred contests in which 
Markham’s mocking voice had come in to matte everything worse, 
or of which Markham’s escapades had been the cause. 

“ I will not see him,” he said; “ I will not sanction his presence 
here. You must give up the idea of going altogether, till he is out 
of the way. ’ ’ 

“ I think, papa, you must see him.” 

“ Must — there is no must. I have not been in the habit of ac- 
knowledging compulsion, and be assured that I shall not begin now. 
You seem to expect that your small affairs are to upset my whole 
life!” 

‘ ‘ I suppose, ’ ’ said Frances, ‘ ‘ my affairs are small ; but then they 
are my life too. ” 

She ought to have been subdued into silence by his first objection; 
but, on the contrary, she met his angry eyes with a look wdiich was 
deprecating, but not abject, holding her little own. It was a long 
time since Waring had encountered anything which he could not 
subdue and put aside out of his path. But he said to himself — all 


96 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 

that long restrained and silent temper which had once reigned and 
raged within him, springing up again unsubdued — he might have 
known! The moment long deferred, yet inevitable, which brought 
him in contact once more with his wife, could bring nothing with 
it but pain. Strife breathed from her wherever she appeared. He 
had never been a match for her and her boy, even at his best; and 
now that he had forgotten the way^of battle— now that his strength 
was broken with long quiet, and the sword had fallen from his 
hand, she had a i)ull over him now which she had not possessed 
before. He could have done . without both the children a dozen 
years ago. He was conscious that it was more from self-assertion 
than from love that he had carried off the little one, who was rather 
an embarrassment than a pleasure in those days, because he would 
not let her have everything her own way. But now, Frances was 
no longer a creature without identity, not a thing to be handed from 
one to another. He could not free himself of interest in her, of re- 
sponsibility for her, of feeling his honor and credit implicated in all 
that concerned her. Ah! that woman knew. She had a hold upon 
him that she never had before; and the first use she made of it was 
to insult him — to send her son, whom he hated, for his daughter, to 
force him into unwilling intercourse with her family once more. 

Frances took the opportunity to steal away while her father 
gloomily pursued these thoughts. What a change from the tran- 
quillity which nothing disturbed! now one day after another, there 
was some new thing that stirred up once more the original pain. 
There was no end to it. The mother’s letters at one moment, the 
brother’s arrival at another, and no more quiet whatever could be 
done, no more peace. 

Nevertheless, dinner and the compulsory decorum which sur- 
rounds that great daily event, had its usual tranquilizing effect. 
Waring could not shut out from his mind the consciousness that 
to refuse to see his wife’s son, the brother of his own children, was 
against all the decencies of life. It is easy to say that you will not 
acknowledge social compulsion, but it is not so easy to carry out 
that determination. By the time that dinner was over, he had be- 
gun to perceive that it was impossible. He took no part, indeed, 
in the conversation, lightly maintained by Constance, about her 
, brother, made short replies even when he was directly addressed, 

' and kept up more or less the lowering aspect with which he had 
meant to crush Frances. But Frances was not crushed, and Con- 
stance was excited and gay. “ Let us send for him after dinner, ” 
she said. “He is always amusing. There is nothing Markliam 
does not kn^. I have seen nobody for a fortnight, and no doubt a 
hundred things have happened. Do send for. Markham, Frances. 
X)h, you must, not look at papa. I know papa is not fond of him. 
Dear! if you tliink one can be fond of everybody one meets — especi- 
ally one’s connections. Everybody knows that you ]iate half of 
tliem, That makes it piquant. There is nobody you can say such 
spiteful things to as people whom you belong to, whom yen call by 
their Christian hames. ’ ’ 

‘ That is a charming Christian sentiment — entirely suited to the 
Surroundings you have been used to. Con; but not to your sister’s.’’ 

“ Oh, my sister! She has heard plenty of hard things said of 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


97 


that gopd little Tasie, who is her chief friend. Frances would not 
say them herself. She doesn’t know how. But her surroundings 
are not so ignorant. You are not called upon to assume so much 
virtue, papa.” 

“I think you forget a little to whom you are speaking,” said 
Waring with quick anger. 

” Papa!” cried Constance with an astonished look, ” I think it is 
you who forget. We are not in the middle ages. Mamma failed 
to remember that. I hope you have not forgotten too, or I should 
be sorry I came here.” 

He looked at her with a sudden gleam of rage in his eyes. That 
temper which had fallen into disuse, was no more overcome than 
when all this trouble began; but he remained silent, putting force 
upon himself, though he could not quite conceal the struggle. At 
last he bui-st into an angry laugh: ” You will train me, perhaps, in 
time, to the subjection which is required from the nineteenth-cent- 
ury parent,” he said. 

“You are charming,” said his daughter with a bow and smile 
across the table. “ There is only this lingering trace of medisevalism 
in respect to Markliani. But you know, papa, really, a feud can’t 
exist in these days. Now, answer me yourself; can it? It would 
subject us all to ridicule. My experience is that people as a rule 
are not fond of each other; but to show it is quite a different thing. 
Oh, no, papa; no one can do that.” 

She was so certain of what she said, so calm in the enunciation of 
her dogmas, that he only looked at her and made no other reply. 
And when Constance appealed to Frances whether Domenico 
should not be sent to the hotel to call Markham, he avoided the in- 
quiring look which Frances cast at him. “ If papa has no objec- 
tion,” she said with hesitation and alarm. “ Oh, papa can have no 
objection,” Constance cried; and the message was sent; and Mark- 
ham came., Frances, frightened, made many attempts to excuse 
herself; but her father would neither see nor hear the efforts she 
made. He retired to the book-room while the girls entertained their 
visitor on the loggia; or rather, while he entertained them. War- 
ing heard the voices mingled with laughter, as we all hear the hap- 
pier intercourse of others w^hen we are ourselves in gloomy opposi- 
tion, nursing our wrath. He thought they were all the more lively, 
all the more gay, because he was displeased. Even Frances. He 
forgot that he had made up his mind that Frances had better go (as 
she wished to go), and felt that she was a little monster to take so 
cordially to the stranger whom she knew he disliked and disap- 
proved. Nevertheless, in spite of this irritation and misery, the 
little lecture of Constance on what was conventionally necessary 
had so much effect upon him, that he appeared on the loggia before 
Markham went away, and conquered himself sufficiently to receive, 
if not to make much response to the salutations which his wife’s 
son offered. Markham jumped up from his seat with the greatest 
cordiality, when this tall shadow appeared in the soft darkness. “ I 
can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir, after all these years. I 
hope I am not such a nuisance as I was when you knew me before — 
at the age when all males should be kept out of sight of their seniors, 
as the sage says.” 


98 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

“ What sage was that? Ah! his experience was all at second' 
hand/’ 

“ Like yours, sir,” said Markham. And then there was a slight 
pause, and Constance struck in. 

“Markham is a great institution to people who don’t get the 
‘ [Morning Post. ’ He has told me a heap of things. In a fortnight, 
wlien one is not on the spot, it is astonishing what quantities of 
things happen. In town, one gets used to having one’s gossip hot 
and hot every day.” 

“ The advantage of abstinence is that you get up such an appetite 
for your next meal. I had only a few items of news. My mother 
gave me many messages for you, sir. She hopes you will not ob- 
ject to trust little Frances to my care.” 

“I object — to trust my child to anyone’s care,” said Waring 
quickly. 

“ I beg your pardon. You intend, then, to take my sister to 
England yourself,” the stranger said. 

It was dark, and their faces were invisible to each other; but the 
girls looking on saw a momentary swaying of the tall figure toward 
the smaller one, which suggested something like a blow. Frances 
had nearly sprung from her seat; but Constance put out her hand 
and restrained her. She judged rightly. Passion was strong in 
Waring’s mind. He could, had inclination prevailed, have seized 
the little man by the coat and pitched him out into the road below. 
But bonds were upon him more potent than if they had been made 
of iron. 

“ I have no such intention,” he said. “ I sliould not have sent 
her at all. But it seems she wishes to go. I will not interfere with 
her arrangements. But she must have some time to prepare.” 

“ As long as she likes, sir,” said Markham cheerfully. “ A few 
days more out of the east wind will be delightful to me.” 

And no more passed between them. Waring strolled about the 
loggia with his cigarette. Though Frances had made haste to pro- 
vide a new chair as easy as the other, he had felt himself dislodged, 
and had not yet settled into a new place; and when he joined them 
in the evening, he walked about or sat upon the wall, instead of 
lounging in indolent comfort, as in the old quiet days. On this 
evening he stood at the corner, looking down upon the lights of the 
Marina in the distance, and the gray twinkle of the olives in the 
clear air of the night. The poor neighbors of the little town were 
still on the Punto, enjoying the coolness of the evening hours; and 
the murmur of their talk rose on one side; a little softened by dis- 
tancet while the group on the loggia renewed its conversation close 
at hand. Waring stood and listened with a contempt of it which 
he partially knew to be unjust. But he was sore and bitter, and 
the ease and gayety seemed a kind of insult to him, one of many 
insults which he was of opinion he had received from his Avife’s 
son. “ Confounded little fool,” he said to himself. 

But Constance was right in her Avorldly Avisdom. It would make 
them all ridiculous if he made objections to Markham, if he 
showed openly his distaste to him. The world was but a small 
world at Bordighera; but yet it A\^as not without its power. The 
interrupted conA^ersation went on Avith great vigor. He remarked 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


99 


with a certain satisfaction that Frances talked very littles but Con- 
stance and her brother — as he called himself, the puppy! never 
paused. There is no such position for seeing the worst of ordinary 
conversation. Waring stood out blankly upon the bewildering 
lines of the hills toward the west, with the fresh breeze in his face, 
and his cigarette only kept alight by a violent puff now and then, 
listening to the lively chatter. How vacant it was — about this one 
and that one; about So-and-so’s peculiarities; about things not 
even made clear, which ^acli understood at half a word, which 
made them laugh. Good heavens, at what? Not at the Avit of it, 
for there was no wit. At some ludicrous image involved, which to 
the listener was dull, dull as the village chatter on the other side; 
but more dull, more vapid in its artificial ring. How they echoed 
each other, chiming in; how they remembered anecdotes to the 
discredit of their friends; how they ran on in the same circle 
endlessly, with jests that were Avithout point even to Frances, Avho 
sat listening in an eager tension of interest, but could not keep up 
to the height of the talk, which Avas all about people she did not 
know — and still more without point to Waring, who had known, 
but knew no longer, and who was angry and mortified and bitter, 
feeling his supremacy taken from him in his own house, and all his 
habits shattered, yet knew very well that he could not resist, that 
to shoAV his dislike would only make him ridiculous; that he Avas 
once more subject to Society, and dare not shoAv his contempt for 
its bonds. 

After a Avhile, he flung his half-finished cigarette over the wall, 
and stalked away, Avith a brief, “ Excuse me, but I must say good- 
night.” Markham sprung up from his chair; but his step-father 
only waved his hand to the little party sitting in the evening dark- 
ness, and went away, his footsteps sounding upon the marble floor 
through the salone and the anteroom, closing the doors behind him. 
There was a little silence as he disappeared. 

“ Well,” said Markham with a long-drawn breath, “ that’s over, 
Con; and better than might liaA^e been expected.” 

“Better! Do you call that better? I should say almost as bad 
as could be. Why didn’t you stand up to him and have it out?” 

“ My dear, he always cows me a little,” said Markham. “ I re- 
member times when I slood up to him, as you say, with that idiocy 
of youth in Avhich you are so strong. Con; but I think I generally 
came off second best. Our respected papa has a great gift of lan- 
guage when he likes.” 

“ He does not like now, he is too old; he has given up that sort of 
thing. Ask Frances. She thinks him the mildest of pious fathers.” 

“ If you please,” said the little voice of Frances out of the 
gloom, with a little quiver in it, “I Avish you would not speak 
about papa so, before me. It is, perhaps, quite right of you, who 
have no feeling for him, or don’t knoAV him very Avell: but with me 
it is quite different. Whether you are right or, wrong, I can not 
liaA’-e it, please.” 

“ The little thing is quite right. Con,” said Markham. “ I beg 
your pardon, little Fan. I have a great respect for papa, though he 
has none for me. Too old! He is not so old as I am, and a much 


100 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


more estimable member of society. He is not old enough — that is 
the worst of it — for you and me.” 

“ I am not going to encourage her in her nonsense, ” said Con- 
stance, ” as if one’s father or mother was something sacred, as if 
they were not just human beings like ourselves. But apart from 
that, as I have told Frances, I think very well of papa. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XVI. 

There was no more said for a day or two about the journey. But 
that it was to take place, that Markham was waiting till his step- 
sister was ready, and that Frances was making her preparations to 
go, nobody any longer attempted to ignore. Waring himself had 
gone so far in his recognition of the inevitable as to give Frances 
money to provide for the necessities of tlie journey. “You will 
want things,” he said. “ I don’t wish it to be thought that I kept 
you like a little beggar. ’ ’ 

“lam not like a little beggar, papa,” cried Frances with an in- 
dignation which scarcely any of the more serious grievances of her 
life had called forth. She had always supposed him to be pleased 
with the British neatness, the modest, girlish costumes which she 
had procured for herself by instinct, and which made this girl, 
who knew nothing of England, so characteristically an English 
girl. This proof of the man’s ignorance — which Frances ignor- 
antly supposed to mean entire indifference to her appearance — went 
to her heart. “ And it is impossible to get things here,” she added 
with her usual anxious penitence for her impatience. 

“You can do it in Paris, tlien,” he said. “ I suppose you have 
enough of the instincts of your sex to buy clothes in Paris.” 

Girls are not fond of hearing of the instincts of their sex. She 
turned away with a speechless vexation and distress which it 
pleased him to think rudeness. 

‘ ‘ But she keeps the money all the same, ’ ’ he said to himself. 

Thus it became very apparent that the departure of Frances was 
desirable, and that she could not go too soon. But there were still 
inevitable delays. Strange! that when love imbittered made her 
stay intolerable, the washer- woman should have compelled it. But 
to Frances, for the moment, everything in life was strange. 

And not the least strange was the way in which Markham, 
whom she liked, but did not understand, the odd, little, shabby, 
unlovely personage, who looked like anything in the world but an 
individual of importance, was received by the little world of Bor- 
dighera. At the little church on Sunday, there was a faint stir 
when he came in, and one lady pointed him out to another as the 
small audience filed out. The English landlady at the hotel spoke 
of him continually. Lord Markham was now the authority which 
she quoted on all subjects. Even Domenico said “ meelord ” with 
a relish. And as for the Durants, their enthusiasm was boundless. 
Tasie, not yet quite recovered from the excitement of Constance’s 
arrival, lost her self-control altogether when Markham appeared. 
It was so good of him to come to church, she said; such an example 
for the people at the hotels! And so nice to lose so little time in 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


101 


coming to call upon papa. Of course, papa, as the clergyman, 
would have called upon him as soon as it was known where he was 
staying. But it was so pretty of Lord Markham to conform to for- 
eign ways and make the first visit. “ We knew it must he your 
doing, Frances,” she said with grateful delight. 

‘ ‘ But, indeed, it was not my doing. It is Constance who makes 
him come, ’ ’ Frances cried. 

Constance, indeed, insisted upon his company everywhere. She 
took him not only to the Durants, but to the bungalow up among 
the olive woods, which they found in great excitement, and where 
the appearance of Lord Markham partially failed of its effect, a 
greater hero and stranger being there. George Gaunt, the general’s 
youngest son, the chief subject of his mother’s talk, the one of her 
children about whom she always had something to say, had arrived 
the day before, and in his presence, even a living lord sunk into a 
secondary place. Mrs. Gaunt had been the first to see the little 
party coming along by the terraces of the olive woods. She had, 
long, long ago, formed plans in her imagination of what might 
ensue when George came home. She ran out to meet them with 
her hands extended. “ Oh, Frances, I am so glad to see you. Only 
fancy what has happened. George has come.” 

‘ ‘ I am so glad, ’ ’ said Frances, wdio was the first. She was more 
used to the winding of those terraces, and ^hen she had not so 
much to talk of as Constance and Markham. Her face liglited up 
with pleasure. “ How happy you must be, ” she said, kissing the 
old lady affectionately. “ Is he well?” 

” Oh, wonderfully well; so much better than I could have lioped. 
George, George, where are you? Oh, 1113^ dear, I am so anxious that 
you should meet; I want you to like him,” Mrs. Gaunt said. 

Almost for the first time, there came a sting of pain to Frances’ 
heart. She had heard a great deal of George Gaunt. She had 
thought of him more than of an}'- other stranger. She had won- 
dered what he would be like, and smiled to herself at his mother’s 
too evident anxiet}^ to bring them together, with a slight, not dis- 
agreeable flutter of interest in her own consciousness. And now 
here he was, and she was going awa}^! It seemed a sort of spite of 
fortune, a tantalizing of circumstances; though, to be sure, she 
did not know whether she should like him, or if Mrs. Gaunt’s 
hopes might bear any fruit. Still, it was the only outlet her 
imagination had ever had, and it had amused and given her a 
pleasant fantastic glimpse now and then into something that might 
be more exciting than the calm round of ever}’" da}^ 

She stood on the little grassy terrace which surrounded the 
house, looking toward the open door, but not taking any step 
toward it, waiting for the hero to appear. The house was low and 
broad, with a veranda round it, planted in the midst of the olive 
groves, where there was a little clearing, and looking down upon 
the sea. Frances paused there, with her face toward the house, and 
saw coming out from under the shadow of the veranda, with a cer- 
tain awkward celerity, the straight slim figure of the young Indian 
officer, his mother’s hero, and, in a visionary sense, her own. She 
did not advance — she could not tell why — but waited till he should 
come up, while his mother turned round, beckoning to him. This 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


102 

was how it was that Constance and Markham arrived upon the 
scene before the introduction was fully accomplished, Frances 
held out her hand, and he took it, coming forward; but already his 
eyes had traveled over her head to the other pair arriving, with a 
look of inquiry and surprise. He let Frances’ hand drop as soon 
as he had touched it, and turned toward the other, who was much 
more attractive than Frances. Constance, who missed nothing, gave 
him a glance, and then turned to his mother. “ We brought our 
brother to see you,” she said (as Frances had not had presence of 
mind to do). “ Lord Markham, Mrs. Gaunt. But we have come 
at an inappropriate moment, when you are occupied. ’ ’ 

” Oh, no! It is so kind of you to come. This is my son George, 
Miss Waring. He arrived last night. I have so wanted him to 
meet — ” She did not say Frances; but she looked at the little girl, 
who was quite eclipsed and in the background, and then hurriedly 
added, “your — family; whose name he knows, as such friends! 
And how kind of Lord Markham to come all this way.” 

She was not accustomed to lords, and the mother’s mind jumped 
at once to the vain, but so usual idea, that this lord, w^io had him- 
self sought the acquaintance, might be of use to her son. She 
brought forward George, who was a little dazzled too; and it was 
not till the party had been swept into the veranda, where the family 
sat in the evening, that Mrs. Gaunt became aware that Frances had 
followed the last of thff train, and had seated herself on the outskirts 
of the group, no one paying any heed to her. Even then, she was 
too much under the influence of the less known visitors to do any- 
thing to put this right. 

“I am delighted that you think me kind,” said Markham, in 
answer to the assurances which Mrs. Gaunt kept repeating, not 
knowing what to say. “My step-father is not of that opinion at 
all. Neither will you be, I fear, when you know my mission. I 
have come for Frances. ’ ’ 

“ For Frances!” she cried, with a little suppressed scream of dis- 
may. 

“ Ah, I said you would not be of that opinion long,” Markliam 
said. 

“ Is Frances going away?” said the old general. “ I don’t think 
we can stand that. Eh, George? that is not what your mother 
promised you. Frances is all we have got to remind us that we 
were young once. Waring must hear reason. He must not let her 
go away. ’ ’ 

“ !]^ances is going; but Constance stays,” interposed that young 
lady. “ General, I hope you will adopt me in her stead.” 

“That I will,” said the old soldier; “that is, I will adopt you 
in addition, for we can not give up Frances. Though, if it is only 
for a short visit, if you pledge yourself to bring her back again, I 
suppose we will have to give our consent.” 

“ Not I,” said Mrs. Gaunt under her breath. She whispered to 
her son: “Go and talk to her. This is not Frances; that is 
Frances,” leaning over his shoulder. 

George did not mean to shake off her hand; but he made a little 
impatient movement, and turned the other way to Constance, to 
whom he made some confused remark. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


103 


All the conversation was about Frances; but she took no part in 
it, nor did any one turn to her to ask her own opinion. She sat on 
the edge of the veranda, half hidden by the luxuriant growth of a 
rose which covered one of the pillars, and looked out rather wist- 
fully, it must be allowed, over the gray clouds of olives in the fore- 
ground, to the blue of the sea beyond. It was twilight under the 
shade of the veranda; but outside, a subdued daylight, on the turn 
toward night. The little talk about her was very flattering, but 
somehow it did not have the effect it might have had; for though 
they all spoke of her as of so much importance, they left her out 
with one consent. Not exactly with one consent. Mrs. Gaunt, 
standing up, looking from one to another, hurt — though causelessly 
— beyond expression by the careless movement of her newly re- 
turned boy, Avould have gone to Frances, had she not been held by 
some magnetic attraction which emanated from the others — the 
lord — who might be of use; the young lady, whose careless ease 
and self-confidence were dazzling to simple people. 

Neither the general nor his wife could realize that she was 
merely Frances’ sister, Waring’s daughter. She was the sister of 
Lord Markham. She was on another level altogether from the 
little girl who had been so pleasant to them all and so sweet. They 
were very sorry that Frances was going away; but the other one 
required attention, had to be thought of, and put in the chief place. 
As for Frances, who knew them all so well, she would not mind. 
And thus even Mrs. Gaunt directed her attention to the new-comer. 

Frances thought it was all very natural, and exactly what she 
wished. She was glad, very glad that they should take to Con- 
stance; that she should make friends with all the old friends who 
to herself had been so tender and kind. But there was one thing 
in which she could not help but feel a little disappointed, discon- 
certed, cast down. She had looked forward to George. She had 
thought of this new element in the quiet village life with a pleas- 
ant flutter of her heart. It had been natural to think of him as fall- 
ing more or less to her own share, partly because it would be so in 
the fitness of things, she being the youngest of all the society — the 
girl, as he would be the boy; and partly because of his mother’s 
fond talk, which was full of innocent hints of her hopes. That 
George sliould come when she was just going away, was bad 
enough; but that they should have met like this, that he should 
have touched her hand almost without looking at her, that he 
should not have had the most momentary desire to make acquaint- 
ance with Frances, whose name he must have heard so often : that 
gave her a real pang. To be sure, it was only a pang of the imagi- 
nation. She had not fallen In love with his photograph, which did 
not represent an Adonis; and it was something, half a brother, half 
a comrade, not (consciously) a lover, for which Frances had looked 
in him. But yet it gave her a very strange, painful, deserted sen- 
sation when she saw him look over her head at Constance, and felt 
her hand dropped as soon as taken. She smiled a little at herself, 
when she came to think of it, saying to herself that she knew very 
well Constance was far more charming, far more pretty than she, 
and that it was only natural she should take the first place. Frances 
was ever anxious to yield to her the first place. But she could not 


104 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 

help that quiver of involuntary feeling. She was hurt, though it 
was all so natural. It was natural, too, that she should be hurt, 
and that nobody should take any notice— all the most everyday 
things in the world. 

George Gaunt came to the Palazzo next day. He came in the 
afternoon with his father, to be introduced to Waring; and he came 
again after dinner — for these neighbors did not entertain each other 
at the working-day meals, so to speak, but only in light ornamental 
ways, with cups of tea or black coffee — with both his parents to 
spend the evening. He was thin and of a slightly greenish tinge in 
his brownness, by reason of India and the illnesses he had gone 
through; but his slim figure had a look of power; and he had Mnd 
eyes, like his mother’s, under the hollows of his brows: not a hand- 
some young man, yet not at all common or ordinary, with a sol- 
dier’s neatness and upright bearing. To see Markham beside him 
with his insignificant figure, his little round head tufted with sandy 
hair, his one-sided look with his glass in his eye, or his ear tilted up 
on the opposite side, was as good as a sermon upon race and its 
advantages. For Marldiam was the fifteenth lord; and the Gaunts 
were, it was understood, of as good as no family at all. Captain 
George from that first evening had neither ear nor eye for any one 
but Constance. He followed her about shyly wherever she moved; 
he stood over her when she sat down. He said little, for he was 
shy, poor fellow; yet he did sometimes hazard a remark, which 
was always subsidiary or responsive to something she had said. 

Mrs. Gaunt’s distress at this subversion of all she had intended 
was great. She got Frances into a corner of the loggia while the 
others talked, and thrust upon her a pretty sandal- wood box inlaid 
wdth ivory, one of those that George had brought from India. 

“ It was always intended for you, dear,” she said. “ Of course, he 
could not venture to offer it himself. ’ ’ 

“But, dear Mrs. Gaunt,” said Frances, with a low laugh, in 
which all her little bitterness evaporated, ” I don’t think he has so 
much as seen my face. I am sure he would not know me if we 
met in the road.” 

” Oh, my de^ child,” cried poor Mrs. Gaunt, “ it has been such 
a disappointmeht to me. I have just cried my eyes out over it. 
To think you should not have taken to each other after all my 
dreams and hopes.” 

Frances laughed again; but she did not say that there had been 
no failure of interest on her side. She said: “ I hope he will soon 
be quite strong and well. You will write and tell me about every- 
body.” 

“ Indeed, I will. Oh, Frances, is it possible that you are going so 
soon? It does not seem natural that you should be going, and that 
your sister should stay. ’ ’ 

” Not very natural,” said Frances with a composure which was 
less natural still. “ But since it is to be, I hope you will see as 
much of her as you can, dear Mrs. Gaunt, and be as kind to her as 
you have been to me.” 

” Oh, my dear, there is little doubt that I shall see a great deal of 
her,” said the mother, with a glance toward the other group, of 
which Constance was the central figure. She was lying back in 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


105 


the big wicker-work chair; with the white hands and arms, which 
showed out of sleeves shorter than were usual in Bordighera, very 
visible in the dusk, accompanying her talk by lively gestures. The 
young captain stood like a sentinel a little behind her. His 
mother’s glance was half vexation and half pleasure. She thought 
it was a great thing for a girl to have secured the attentions of her 
boy, and a very sad thing for the girl who had not secured them. 
Any doubt that Constance might not be grateful, had not yet en- 
tered her thoughts. Frances, though she was so much less ex- 
perienced, saw the matter in another light. 

“You must remember,” she said, “that she has been brought 
up very differently. She has been used to a great deal of admira- 
tion. Markliam says.” 

“ And now you will come in for that, and she must take what 
she can get here.” Mrs. Gaunt’s tone when she said thisshow(d 
that she felt, whoever was the loser, it would not be Constance. 
Frances shook her head. 

“ It will be very different with me. And dear Mrs. Gaunt, if 
Constance should not — do as you wish — ” 

“ My dear, I will not interfere. It never does any good when a 
mother interferes,” Mrs. Gaunt said hurriedly. Her mind was 
incapable of pursuing the idea wdiich Frances so timidly had en- 
deavored to suggest. And what could the girl do more? 

Next day, she went away. Her father, pale and stern, took leave 
of her in the book-room with an air of offense and displeasure which 
went to Frances’ heart. “ I will not come to the station. You will 
have, no doubt, everybody at the station. I don’t like greetings 
in the market-places, ’ ’ he said. 

“Papa,” said Frances, “ Mariuccia knows everything. I am 
sure she will be careful. She says she will not trouble Constance 
more than is necessary. And I hope — ” 

“ Oh, we shall do very well, I don’t doubt.” 

“ I hope you will forgive me, papa, for all I may have done 
wrong. I hope you will not miss me; that is, I hope — oh, I hoi>e 
you will miss me a little, for it breaks my heart when you look at 
me like that.” 

“ We shall do very well,” said Waring, not looking at her at all, 
“ both you and I.” 

“ And you have nothing to say to me, papa?” 

“ Nothing — except that I hope you will like your new life and 
find everything pleasant. Good-bye, my dear; it is time you were 
going.” 

And that was all. Everybody was at the station, it was true, 
which made it no place for leave-takings; and Frances did not 
know that he watched the train from the loggia till the white plume 
of steam disappeared with a roar in the next of those many tunnels 
that spoil the beautiful Cornice road. Constance w^alked back in 
the midst of the Gaunts and Durants, looking, as she always did, 
the mistress of the situation. But neither did Frances, blotted out 
in the corner of the carriage, crying behind her veil and her hand- 
kerchief, leaving all she knew behind her, understand with wdiat a 
tug at her heart Constance saw the familiar little ugly face of her 
brother for the last time at the carriage window, and turned back 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


106 

to the deadly monotony of the shelter she had sought for herself, 
tvith a sense that everything was over, and she lierself completely 
deserted, like a wreck upon a desolate shore. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Yes, I hope you will come and see me often. Oh, yes, I shall 
miss my sister; but then I shall have all the more of papa. Good- 
night. Good-night, Captain Gaunt. No; I don’t sketch; that was 
Frances. I don’t know the countrj^ either. It v'as my sister who 
knew it. I am quite ignorant and useless. Good-night.” 

Waring, who was on the loggia, heard this in the clear tones of 
his only remaining companion. He heard her come in afterward 
with a step more distinct than that of Frances, as her voice carried 
further. He said to himself that everything was more distinct about 
this girl, and he was glad that she was coming, glad of some relief 
from the depression wdiich overcame him against his will. She 
came across one room after another, and out upon the loggia, 
throwing herself down listlessly in the usurped chair. It did not 
occur to him that she was imaware of his presence, and he was sur- 
prised that she said nothing. But after a minute or two, ihere 
could be no doubt how it was that Constance did not speak. There 
■'.vas no loud outburst of emotion, but a low suppressed sound, 
^'idlich it was impossible to mistake. She said after a moment to 
herself: "What a fool 1 am!” But even this reflection did not 
stem the tide. A sensation of utter solitude had seized upon her. 
She was abandoned, among strangers; and though she had so 
much experience of the world, it was not of this world that Con- 
stance had any knowledge. Had she been left alone among a new 
tribe of people unlcnown to her, she would not have been afraid! 
Court or camp would have had no alarms for her; but the solitude, 
broken only % the occasional appearance of these rustic compan- 
ions; the simple young soldier, who was going to bestow his heart 
upon her, an entirely undesirecl gift; the anxious mother, who was 
about to mount gpard over her at a distance; the polite old beau in 
the background. Was it possible that the existence she knew had 
altogether receded from Constance, and left her with such compan- 
ions alone? She was not thinking of her father, neither of himself 
nor of his possible presence, which was of little importance to 
her. After a while, she sat upright and passed her handkerchief 
quickly over her face, "It is my own fault,” she said, still to 
herself; " 1 might have known.” 

"You don’t see, Constance, that I am here.” 

She started, and pulled herself up in a moment. " Oh, are you 
there, papa? No, I didn’t see you. I didn’t think of any one being 
here. Well, tliey are gone. Everybody came to see Frances off, 
as you divined. She bore up very well; but, of course, it was a 
little sad for her, leaving everything she knows.” 

" You were crying a minute ago, Constance.” 

" Was I? Oh, well; that was nothing. Girls cry, and it doesn’t 
mean much. You know women well enough to know that.” 

" Yes, I know women— enough to say the ordinary things about 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 10/ 

them,” said Waring; ” but perhaps I don’t know you, which is of 
far more consequence just now.” 

‘‘There is not much in me ’to know,” said the girl in alight 
voice. ‘‘lam just like other girls. I am apt to cry when I see peo- 
ple crjdng. Frances sobbed— like a little foolish thing; for why 
should she cry? She is going to see the world. Did you ever feel, 
when you came here first, a sort of horror seize upon you, as if — as 
if — as if you were lost in a savage wilderness, and would never see 
a human face again?” 

‘‘ No; I can not say I ever felt that.” 

“ No, to be sure,” cried Constance. “ What -ridiculous nonsense 
I am talking! A savage wilderness! with all these houses about, 
and the hotels on the beach. I mean — didn’t you feel as if you 
would like to run violently down a steep place into the sea!” Then 
she stopped, and laughed. ‘‘ It was the swine that did that.” 

” It has never occurred to me to take that means of settling 
matters; and yet I understand you,” he said gravely. ” You have 
made a mistake. You thought you were philosopher enough to 
give up tlie world; and it turns out that you are not. But you need 
not cry, for it is not too late. You can change your mind.” 

” I — change my mind! Not for the world, papa! Do you think I 
would give them the triumph of supposing that I could not do with- 
out them, that I was obliged to go back? Not for the world.” 

‘‘I understand the sentiment,” he said. “ Still, between these 
two conditions of mind, it is rather unfortunate for you, my dear. I 
do not see any middle course.” 

” Oh, yes; there is a middle course. I can make myself very 
comfortable here; and that is what I mean to do. Papa, if you had 
not found it out, l’ should not have told you. I hope you are not 
otfended?” 

” Oh, no, I am not offended,” he said with a short laugh. “ It is 
perhaps a pity that everybody has been put to so much trouble for 
what gives you so little satisfaction. That is the worst of it; these 
mista&3S affect so many others besides one’s self.” 

Constance evidently had a struggle with herself to accept this 
reproof; but she made no - immediate reply. After a while: 
” Frances will be a little strange at first; but she will like it by and 
by; and it is only right she should have her share,” she said softly. 
“ I have been wondering,” she went on with a laugh that was some 
what forced, ‘‘ whether mamma will respect her individuality at all; 
or if she will put her altogether into my place? I wonder if — that 
man I told you of, papa — ” 

” Well, what of him?” said Waring, rather sharply. 

” I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would 
be droll. Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she 
can help it; and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; 
she is so docile — and so obedient — ” 

“ You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, 
or anything that offers? I don’t think she is so well brought up as 
that.” 

” I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing 
to her feet. ” She is so well brought up, that she accepted what- 


108 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIIS'ST ITSELF. 


ever you chose to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that 
she was a lady. ’ ’ 

Waring’ s face grew scarlet in the darkness. “ I hope,” he said, 
“that I am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my 
daughter is a lady. ” 

“ You mean me,” she cried, breathless. ‘ Oh, I can — ” But 
here she stopped. “ Papa,” she resumed, what good will it do 
us to cpiarrel? I don’t want to quarrel. Instead of setting your- 
self against me because I am poor Con, and not Frances, whom 
you love — Oh, I think you might be good to me just at this mo- 
inent; for I am very lonely, and I don’t know what I am good for, 
and I think my heart will break. ’ ’ 

She went to him quietly and flung herself upon his shoulder, and 
cried. Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this 
appeal; but after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her 
He put his arm round liei', and said a few soothing words. “ You 
may be good for a great deal, if you choose,” he said; “ and if you 
will believe me, my dear, you will- find that by far the most amus- 
ing way. You have more capabilities than Frances; you are much 
belter educated than she is — a1 least, I suppose so, for she was not 
educated at all.” 

“How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don’t ex- 
pect to be amused; all that is over,” said Constance, in a dolorous 
tone. 

He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to con- 
sider whether he should be angry, but decided against it, and 
laughed instead. “ You are not complimentary,” he- said. “ What 
I mean is, that if you sit still and think over your deprivations, 
3mu will inevitably be miserable; whereas, if you exert yourself a 
little, and make the best of the situation, you will very likely ex- 
tract something that is amusing out of it. I have seen it happen so 
often in my experience. ’ ’ 

“ Ahl” said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew 
from him and went back to her chair. “ I thought, perhaps, you 
meant something more positive. There are, perhaps, possibilities — 
Frances would have thought it wrong to look out for amusement — 
that must have been because you trained her so.” 

“ Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement 
as you do. It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, 
more food, more delight than others.” 

“ Yes, yes,” she cried; “ that is like me. Some people are more 
alive than others; that is what you mean, papa.” 

‘ ‘ I am not sure that it is what I mean ; but if you like to take it 
so, I have no objection. And in that view, I recommend you to 
live, Constance. You will find it a great deal more amusing than 
to mope; and it will be much pleasanter to me.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I was considering. Perhaps what I mean 
will be not the same as what you mean. I will not do it in Frances’ 
way; but still I will take jmur advice, papa. I am sure you are 
right in what you say. ’ ’ 

“I am glad you think so, my dear. If you can not have every- 
thing you want, take what you can get. It is the only true philoso- 
phy.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 109 

Then I shall be a true philosopher,” she said with a laugh. The 
laugh was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again 
after a little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. 
“But I must not interfere too much with Mariuccia, it appears. 
She knows what you like better than I do. I am only to look wise 
when she submits her menu, as if I knew all about it. I am very 
good at looking as if I knew all about it. By the way, do you 
know there is no piano? I should like to have a piano, if I might.” 

“ That will not be very difficult,” he said. “ Can you play?” 

At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence 
restored. “You shall hear, when you get me a piano. Thanks, 
papa; you have quite restored me to myself. I can’t knit you 
socks, like Frances; and I am not so clever about the mayonnaises; 
but still I am not altogether devoid of intellect. And now, we 
completely understand each other. Good-night.” 

“ This is sudden,” he said. “ Good-night, if you think it is time 
for that ceremony.” 

“ It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some altera- 
tions to make in my room, now that — now that — at present when I 
am quite settled and see my way. ’ ’ 

He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. 
It was of very little consequence. Indeed, it. was perhaps well 
that she should go and leave him to think of everything. It was not 
a month yet since the day when he had met that idiot INIannering on 
the road. To be sure, there was no proof that the idiot Mannering 
'was the cause of all that had ensued. But at least it was he who 
had first disturbed the calm which Waring hoped was to have been 
eternal. He sat down to think, almost grateful to Constance for 
taking herself away. He thought a little of Frances huj^-y- 
ing along into the unknown, the first great journey she had 
ever taken, and such a journey, away from everything and 
everybody she knew. Poor little Fan! He thought a little 
about her; but he thought a great deal about himself. Would it 
ever be possible to return to that peace which had been so profound, 
w'hich had ceased to appear capable of disturbance? The circum- 
stances were all very different now. Frances,, who would think it 
her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her mother’s 
companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to escape 
from which he had given up the world and (almost) his own spec- 
ies. And Constance, though she had elected to be his companion, 
w'ould no doubt all the same write to her mother; and everything 
that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life, would 
thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that 
dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained 
wffiich makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? 
But it was impossible to prevent it. Ilis wife would become a sort 
of distant witness of ever)ffhing he did. Slie 'would know what he 
liked for dinner, the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. 
To describe how this thought annoyed him would be impossible. He 
had forgotten to warn Frances that her father was not to be dis- 
cussed with my lady. But what was the use of saying anything, 
when letters would come and go continually from the one house to 
the other? And he would be compelled to put up with it, though 


110 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


nothing could be more unpleasant. If these girls had been boys, 
this would not have happened. It was, perhaps, the first time War- 
ing had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys were i ar 
more objectionable to his fine tastes than girls, gave more trouble, 
and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present circum- 
stances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less 
embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of that un- 
profitable exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, lie felt sure, 
would in all cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She 
would write to him perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every 
week; and she would think it her duty to tell him everything that 
happened, and she would require that he should write. But this, 
except once or twice, perhaps, to -let her down easily, he was re- 
solved that nothing should induce him to do. 

Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her 
room. She had never betrayed the consciousness in any way, being 
high-bred and courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort 
to be so; yet she had divined that Frances had given up her room 
to her. This would have touched the heart of many people, but to 
Constance it was almost an irritation. She could not think why her 
sister had done it, except with that intention of self-martyrdom 
with which so many good people exasperate their neighbors. She 
would have been quite as comfortable in the blue room, and she 
would have liked it better. Now that Frances was safely gone and 
her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had set her 
heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no 
longer the impress of Frances’ mind, but of her own. She took 
down a number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much 
of^ and softly pulled the things about, and changed it more than 
any one could have supposed a room could be changed. Then she 
sat down to think. The depression which had seized upon her 
when she had felt that all was over, that the door was closed upon 
her, and no place of repentance any longer possible, did not return 
at first. Her father’s words, which she understood in a sense not 
intended by him, gave her a great deal of amusement as she 
thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the fact that 
there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them to 
him to justify herself. “ Frances does not require so much amuse- 
ment as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, 
more delight than another,^’ She laid this dangerous saying up in 
her mind with much glee, laughing to herself under her breath : 
“ If you can not get what you want, you must take what you can 
get.” How astounded he would be if it should ever be neces- 
sary to put him in mind of these dogmas — which Tvere so true! Her 
father’s arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did not suit 
the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind 
when she had felt herself to awake, as it were, on the edge of this 
desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and 
saw that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her 
word, that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and 
that no one would forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to 
smooth the way for her to return. She had expected this, if not 
consciously, yet with a strong unexpressed conviction. But when. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Ill 


she had seen Markham’s face disappear, and realized that he was 
gone, actually gone, and had left her to exist as she could in the 
wilderness to which she had flown, her young perverse soul had 
been swept as by a tempest. 

After awhile, when she had gone through that little interview 
with her father, when she had excuted her little revolution, and had 
seated herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the 
whole matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not 
yet ten o’clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out 
to a succession of entertainments under her mother’s wing; but she 
had nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a 
few old chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake 
herself to bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds 
of voices still audible without, people singing, gossiping, enjoying, 
on the stone benches on the Punto, just those same delights of so- 
ciety which happy people on the verge of a new season were begin- 
ning to enjoy. But Constance did not feel much sympathy with 
the villagers, who were foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying 
and intrusive, making a noise under her windows, when, as it so 
happened, she had nothing to do but to go to sleep. When she 
looked out from the window and saw the pale sky spreading clear 
over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances rushing along 
through the night, with Markham taking such care of her, hasten- 
ing to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that lit- 
tle thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance 
regretting her village. Oh, if they could have but changed places! 
To think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night-air 
blowing in her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns 
flash past, the morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the 
flat country sweep along; then Paris, London, at last! She shut the 
persiani almost violently with a hand that trembled, and looked 
round the four walls which shut her in, with again an impulse al- 
most of despair. She felt like a wild creature newly caged, shut 
in there, to be kept within bolts and bars, to pace up and down, 
and beat against the walls of her prison, and never more to go free. 

But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeak- 
able sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. 
She sprung up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to 
herself what her father had said: “If you can not get what you 
want, you must take what you can get.’’ There was yet a little 
amusement to be had out of this arid place. She had her father’s 
sanction for making use of her opportunities; anything was better 
than to mope; and for her it was a necessity to live. She laughed 
a little under her breath once more, as she came back to this more 
reassuring thought, and so lay down in her sister’s bed with a satis- 
faction in the thought that it had not taken her any trouble to sup- 
plant Frances, and a mischievous • smile about the corners of her 
mouth; although, after all; the thought of the travelers came over 
her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying herself to 
sleep. 


112 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Captain Gaunt called next day to bring, he said, a message from 
his mother. She sent Mr. Waring a newspaper which she thought 
he might like to see, an English weekly newspaper, which some of 
her correspondents had sent her, in which there was an article — 
He did not give a veiy clear account of this, nor make it distinctly 
apparent wh^y Waring should be specially interested; and, as a mat- 
ter of fact, the newspaper found its way to the waste-paper basket, 
and interested -nobody. But no doubt Mrs. Gaunt’s intentions had 
been excellent. When the young soldier arrived, there was a car- 
riage at the door, and Constance had her hat on. “We are going,” 
she said, “ to San Remo, to see about a piano. Do you know San 
Remo? Oh, I forgot you are as much a stranger as I am; you 
don’t know anything. What a good thing that there are two ignor- 
ant persons. We will keep each other in countenance, and they 
will be compelled to make all kinds of expeditions to show us eveiy-v 



will be a wonderful chance for me,” said the young man. 


‘ ‘ for nobody would take so much trouble for me alone. ’ ’ 

“ How can you tell that? Miss Tasie, I should think, would be 
an excellent cicerone,” said Constance, She said it with alight 
laugh of suggestion, meaning to imply, though, of course she had 
said nothing, that Tasie would be too happy to put herself at Cap- 
tain Gaunt’s disposition; a suggestion which he, too, received with 
a laugh; for this is one of the points upon which botli boys and girls 
are always ungenerous. 

“ And failing Miss Tasie,” said Constance, “ suppose you come 
with papa and me? They say it is a pretty drive. They say of 
course, that everything here is lovely, and that the Riviera is para- 
dise. Do you find it so?” 


“ I can fancy dtrcumstances in which I should find it so,” said 
the young soldier. 

“ Ah, yes; every one can do that. I can fancy circumstances in 
which Regent Street would be paradise — oh, very easily. It is not 
far from paradise at any time.” 

“ That is a heaven of which I know very little, Miss Waring.’^ 

“ Ah, then you must learn. The true Elysian Fields are in Lon- 
don in May. If you don’t know that you can form no idea of hap- 
piness. An exile from all delights gives you the information, and 
you may be sure it is true.” 

“ Why, then, Miss Waring, if vou think so — ” 

“ Am I here? Oh, that is easily explained. I have a sister.’^ 

“Yes, I know.” 

“ Ah, I understand you have heard a great deal about my sister. 
I suffer here from being compared with her. I am not nearly so 
good, so wise, as Frances. But is that my fault, Captain Gaunt? 
You are impartial; you are a new- comer. If I could be, I would be 
as nice as Frances, don’t you believe?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


113 

The young man gave Co.nstance a look, which, indeed, she ex- 
pected, and said with confusion: “ I don’t see — any need for im- 
provement,” and blushed as near crimson as was possible over the 
greenish brown of his Indian color. 

^ Constance for her part did not blush. She laughed, and made 
him an almost imperceptible courtesy. The w^ays of flirtation are 
not original, and all the parallels of the early encounters might be 
stereotyped, as everybody knows. 

“ You are very amiable,” she said; ” but then you don’t know 
Frances, and your opinion accordingly is less valuable. I did not 
ask you, however, to believe me to be equal to my sister, but only 
to believe that I would be as nice if I could. However, all that is 
no explanation. We have a mother, you know, in England. We 
are, unfortunately, that sad thing, a household divided against it- 
self.” 

Captain Gaunt was not prepared for such confidences. He grew 
still a little browmer with embarrassment, and muttered something 
about being very sorry, not knowing wiiat to say. 

^ ‘ ‘ Oh, there is not very much to be sorry about. Papa enjoys 
himself in his way here, and mamma is very happy at home. The 
only thing is that we must each have our turn, you know — that is only 
fair. So Frances has gone to mamma, and here am I in Bodighera. 
We are each dreadfully out of our element. Her friends condemn 
me, to begin with, as if it were my fault that I am not like her; 
and my friends, perhaps — But no; I don’t think so. Frances is 
so good, so nice, so everything a girl ou^ht to be.” 

At this she laughed softly again; and. young Gaunt’s conscious- 
ness that his mother’s much vaunted Frances was the sort of girl to 
please old ladies rather than young men, a prim, little, smooth, 
correct maiden, with not the least “go” in her, took additional 
force and certainty. Whereas! But he had no words in which to 
express his sense of the advantages on the other side. 

‘‘You must And it,” he said, knowing nothing more original to 
say, “ dreadfully dull living here. ” 

“ I have not found anything as yet; I have only just come. I am 
no more than a few days older than you are. We can compare 
notes as time goes on. But, perhaps, you don’t mean to stay very 
long in these abodes of the blest?” 

” I don’t know that I did intend it. But I shall stay now as long , 
as ever I can,” said the young man. Then — for he was shy — he 
added hastily; “It is a long time since I have seen my people, and 
they like to have me. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Naturally. But you need not have spoiled what looked like a 
very pretty compliment by adding that. Perhaps you didn’t mean 
it for a compliment? Oh, I don’t mind at all. It is much more 
original, if you didn’t mean it. Compliments are such common 
coin. But I don’t pretend to despise them, as some girls do; and I 
don’t like to see them spoiled,” Constance said seriously. 

The young man looked at her with consternation. After a while, 
his mustache expanded into a laugh, but it was a confased laugh, 
and he did not understand. Still less did he know how to reply. 
Constance had been used to sharper wits, who took her at half a 
word; and she w'as half angry to be thus obliged to explain. 


114 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“We are going to San Remo, as I told you,” she said. “lam 
waiting for mj^ father. We are going tb look for a piano. Frances 
is not musical, so there is no piano in the house. You must come 
too, and give your advice. Oh, are you ready, papa? Captain 
Gaunt, who does not know San Remo, and who does know music, is 
coming with us to give us his advice.” 

The 3’’Oung soldier stammered forth that to go to San Remo was 
the thing he most desired in the world. “ But I don’t think my ad- 
vice will be good for much,” he said conscientiously. “ I do a little 
on the violin; but as for pretending to be a judge of a piano — ” 

“ Come; we are all ready,” said Constance, leading the way. * 

Waring had to let the young fellow precede him, to see him get 
into the carriage without any articulate murmur. As a matter of 
fact, a sort of stupor seized the father, altogether unaccustomed to 
be the victim of accidents. Frances might have lived by his side 
till she was fifty before she would have thought of inviting a 
stranger to be of their party — a stranger, a young man, which was 
a class of being with which Waring had little patience, a young 
soldier, proverbially frivolous, and occupied with foolish matters. 
Young Gaunt respectfully left to his senior the place beside Con- 
stance; but he placed himself opposite to her, and kept his eyes 
upon her with a devout attention, which Waring would have 
thought ridiculous had he not been irritated by it. The young fel- 
low was a great deal too much absorbed to contribute much to the 
amusement of the party; and it irritated Waring beyond measure to 
see his eyes glance from under his eyebrows, opening wider with 
delight, half closing with laughter, the ends of his mustache going 
up to his ears. W aring, an impartial spectator, was not so much 
impressed by his daughter’s wit. He thought he had heard a great 
deal of the same before, or even better, surely l)etter, for he could 
recollect that he had in his day been charmed by a similar treat- 
ment, which must have been much lighter in touch, much less com- 
monplace in subject, because — he was charmed. Thus we argue in 
our generations. In the meantime, young Gaunt, though he had 
not been without some experience, looked at Constance from under 
his brows, and listened as if to the utterances of the gods. If only 
they could have had it all to themselves; if only the old father had 
been out of the way! 

The sunshine, the sea, the beautiful color, the unexpected vision 
round every corner of another and another picturesque cluster of 
towns and roofs; all that charm and variety which give to Italy 
above every country on eadh the admixture of human interest, the 
endless chain of association which adds a grace to natural beauty, 
made very little impression upon this young pair. She would have 
been amused and delighted by the exercise of her own power, and 
he would have been inthralled by her beauty, and what he con- 
sidered her wit and high spirits, had their progress been *along the 
dullest streets. It was only Waring’s eyes, disgusted by the pros- 
pect before him of his daughter’s little artifices, and young Gaunt’s 
imbecile subjection, which turned with any special consciousness to 
the varying blues of the sea, to the endless developments of the 
landscape. Flirtation is one of the last things in the world to brook 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 115 

a spectator. Its little absurdities, which are so delightful to the 
actors ill the drama, and which at a distance the severest critic may- 
smile at and forgive, excite the wrath of a too clever looker-on in a 
way quite disproportioned to their real offensiveness. The inter- 
change of chatter which prevents, as that observer would say, all 
rational conversation, the attempts to charm, which are so transpar- 
ent, the response of silly admiration, which is only another form 
of vanity — how profoundly sensible we all are of their folly. Had 
Constance taken as much pains to please her father, he would, in 
all probability, have yielded altogether to the spell; but he was 
angry, ashamed, furious, that she should address those wiles to the 
young stranger, and saw through him with a clear-sighi edncss 
which was exasperating. It was all the more exasperating that he 
could not tell what she meant by it. Was it possible that she had 
already formed an inclination toward this tawny young stranger? 
Had his bilious hues affected her imagination? Love at first sight is 
a very respeetable emotion, and commands in many cases both sym- 
pathy and admiration. But no man likes to see the working of this 
sentiment in the woman who belongs to him. Had Constance fallen 
in love? He grew angry at the very suggestion, though breathed 
only in the recesses of his own mind. A girl who had been brought 
up in the world, who had seen all kinds of people, was it possible 
that she should fall a victim iri a moment to the attractions of a 
young nobody? a young fellow who knew nothing but India That 
he should be subjected, was simple enough; but Constance! War- 
ing’s brow clouded more and more. He kept silent, taking no part 
in the talk, and the young fools did not so much as remark it! but 
went on with their own absurdity more and more. 

The transformation of a series of little Italian municipalities, al- 
though in their nature more towns than villages, rendered less rus- 
tic by the traditions of an exposed coast, and many a crisis of self- 
defense, into little modern towns full of hotels and tourists, is neither 
a pleasant nor a lovely process. San Kemo in the old days, before 
“Dr. Antonio” made it known to the world, lay among its olive 
gardens on the edge of the sea, which grew bluer and bluer as it crept 
to the feet of the human master of the soil, a delight to behold, a 
little picture which memory cherished. Wide promenades flanked 
with big hotels, with conventional gardens full of green bushes, and 
a kiosk for the band, make a very different prospect now. But 
then, in the old days, there could have been no music-sellers with 
pianos to let or sell; no famous English chemist with colored bot- 
tles; no big shops in which travelers could be tempted. Constance 
forgot Captain Gaunt when she found herself in this atmosphere of 
the world. She began to remember things she wanted. “Papa, 
if you don’t despise it too much, you must let me do a little shop- 
ping,” she said. She wanted a hat for the sun. She wanted some 
eau-de-Cologne. She wanted j-ust to run into the jeweler’s to see if 
the coral was good, to see if there were any peasant-ornaments 
which would be characteristic. At all this her father smiled some- 
what grimly, taking it as a part of the campaign into which his 
daughter had chosen to enter for the overthrow of the young soldier. 
But Constance was perfectly sincere, and had forgotten her cam- 
paign in the new and warmer interest. 


116 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAII^ST ITSELF. 


“ So long as you do not ask me to attend you from shop to shop,” 
he said. 

” Oh, no; Captain Gaunt will come,” said Constance. 

Captain Gaunt was not a victim who required many wiles. He 
was less amusing than she had hoped, in so far that he had given 
in, in an incredibly short space of time. He was now in a condition 
to be trampled on at her pleasure, and this was unexciting. A 
longer resistance would have been much more to Constance’s mind. 
Captain Gaunt accompanied her to all the shops. He helped her 
with his advice about the piano, bending his head over her as she 
ran through a little air or two, and struck a few chords on one after 
the other of the music-seller’s stock. They were not very admirable 
instruments, but one was found that would do. 

“You can bring your violin,” Constance said; “ we must try to 
amuse ourselves a little.” This was before her father left them, 
and he heard it with a groan. 

Waring took a silent walk round the bay while the purchases 
went on. He thought of past experiences, of the attraction which a 
shop has for women. Frances,, no doubt, after a little of her 
mother’s training, would be the same. She would find out the 
charms of shopping. He had not even her return to look forward 
to, for she would not be the same Frances who had left him, when 
she came back. Wien she came back? if she ever came back. The 
same Frances, never; perhaps not even a changed Frances. Her 
mother would quickly see what an advantage she had in getting the 
daughter whom her husband had brought up. She would not give 
her back; she would turn her into a second Constance. There had 
been a time when Waring had concluded that Constance was amus- 
ing and Frances dull; but it must be remembered that he was under 
provocation now. If she had been amusing, it had not been for 
liim. She had exerted herself to please a commonplace, undistin- 
guished boy, with an air of being indifferent to everything else, 
which was beyond measure irritating to her father. And now she 
had got scent of shops, and would never be happy save when she 
was rushing from one place to another — to Mentone, to Nice per- 
haps, wherever her fancied wants might lead her. Waring discussed 
all this with himself as he rambled along, his nerves all set on edge, 
his taste revolted. Flirtations and shops — was he to be brought to 
this? he who had been free from domestic incumbrance, who had 
known nothing for so many years but a little ministrant, who never 
troubled him, who was ready when he wanted her, but never put 
forth herself as a restraint or an annoyance. He had advised Con- 
stance to take what good she could find in her life; but he had 
never imagined that this was the line she would take. 

The drive home was scarcely more satisfactory. Young Gaunt 
had got a little courage by the episode of the shops. He ventured to 
tell her of the trifles he had brought with him from India, and to 
ask if Miss Waring would care to see them; and he described to 
her the progress he had made with his violin and what his attain- 
ments were in music. Constance told him that the best thing he 
could do was to bring the said violin and all his music, so that they 
might see what they could do together. “If you are not too far 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


117 


advanced for me,” she said with a laugh. ” Come in the morning, 
when we shall not be interrupted. ’ ’ 

Her father listened, but said nothing. His imagination immedi- 
ately set before him the tuning and scraping, the clang of the piano, 
the shriek of the fiddle, and he himself only two rooms off, en- 
deavoring in vain to collect his thoughts and do his work! Mr. 
AVaring’s work was not of the first, importance, but still it was his 
work, and momentous to him. He bore, however, a countenance 
unmoved, if very grave, and even endured without a word the 
young man’s entrance with them, the consultation about where the 
piano was to stand, and tea afterward in the loggia. He did not 
himself want any tea; he left the young people to enjoy this refresh- 
ment together while he retired to his book-room. But with only two 
rooms between, and with his senses quickened by displeasure, he 
heard their voices, the laughter. Lie continual flow of talk, even the 
little tinkle of the tea-cups — every sound. He had never been dis- 
turbed by Frances’ tea; but then, except Tasie Durant, there had 
been nobody to share it, no son from the bungalow, no privileged 
messenger sent by his mother. Mrs. Gaunt’s children, of whom 
she talked continually, had always been a nuisance, except to the 
sympathetic soul of Frances. But who could have imagined the 
prominence which they had assumed now? 

Young Gaunt did not go away until shortly before dinner; and 
Constance, after accompanying him to the anteroom, went along 
the corridor singing, to her own room, to change her dress. Though 
her room (Frances’ room that was) was at the extremity of tlie 
suite, her fa'ther heard her light voice running on in a little oper- 
atic air all the time she made her toilet. Had it been described in 
a book, he thought to himself it would have had a pretty sound. 
The girl’s voice, sweet and gay, sounding through the house, the 
voice of happy youth brightening the dull life there, the voice of 
innocent content betraying its own satisfaction with existence — 
satisfaction in having a young fool to flirt with, and some trumpery 
shops to buy unnecessary appendages in! At dinner, how^ever, she 
made fun of young Gaunt, and the morose father was a little molli- 
fied. “ It is rather dreadful for other people when there is an ador- 
ing mother in the background to think everything you do perfec- 
tion,” Constance said. ” I don’t think we shall make much of the 
violin.” 

“ These are subjects on which you can speak with more author- 
ity than I — both the violin and the mother,” said Waring. 

“ Oh,” she cried, you don’t think mamma was one of the ador- 
ing kind, I hope! There may be things in her which might be 
mended; but she is not like that. She kept one in one’s proper 
place. And as for the violin, I suspect he plays it like an old 
fiddler in the streets.” 

“ You have changed your mind about it very rapidly,” said War- 
ing; but on the whole he was pleased. “ You seemed much intei 
ested both in the hero and the music, a little while ago.” 

“Yes; was I not?” said Constance with perfect candor. “ And 
he took it all in, as if it were likely. These young men from India, 
they are very ingenuous. It seems wicked to take advantage of 
them, does it not?” 


118 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


“ More people are ingenuous than the young man from India. I 
intended to si>eak to you very seriously as soon as he 'was gone — to 
ask you — ” 

“What 'were my intentions?” cried Constance, with an outburst 
of the gayest laughter. “ Oh, what a pity 1 began. How sorry I 
am to have missed that. Do you think his mother will ask me, 
papa? It is generally the man, isn’t it? who is questioned; and he 
says his intentions are honorable. Mine, I frankly allow, are not 
honorable.” 

“No; very much the reverse I should think. But it had better 
be clearly defined, for my satisfaction, Constance, which of 3^011 is 
true — the girl who cried over her loneliness last night, or she who 
made love to Captain Gaunt this morning — ” 

“ No, papa; only was a little nice to him, because he is lonely 
too.” 

‘ ‘ These delicacies of expression are too fine for me. Who made 
the poor young fellow believe that she liked his society immensely, 
was much interested, counted upon him and his violin as her 
greatest pleasures. ’ ’ 

“ You are going too far,” she said. “ I think the fiddle will be 
fun. When you play very badly and are a little conceited about 
it, you are always amusing. And as for Captain Gaunt — so long as 
he does not complain — ” 

“ It is I who am complaining, Constance.” 

“ Well, papa — but why? You told me last night to take what I 
had, since I could not have what I want.” 

“And you have acted upon my advice? With great prompti- 
tude, I must allow.” 

“ Yes,” she said with composure. “What is the use of losing 
time? It is not ihy fault if there is somebody here quite ready. 
It amuses him too. And what harm am I doing? A girl can’t be 
asked — except for fun — those disagreeable questions. ’ ’ 

“ And, therefore, you think a girl can do — what would be dis- 
honorable in a man.” 

“ Oh, you are so much too serious,” cried Constance. “Are 
you always ayserious as this? You laughed when I told you 
about Fanny Gervoise. It is only because it is me that you find 
fault. And don’t 3'ou think it is a little too soon for parental inter- 
ference? The Gaunts would be much surprised. They w'ould 
think you were afraid for my peace of mind, papa— as her parents 
were afraid for Miss Tasie. ’ ’ 

This moved the stern father to a smile. He had thought that 
Constance did not appreciate that joke; but the girl had more hu- 
mor than he supposed. “ I see, ’ he said, “ you will have your own 
w^; but remember, Constance, I can not allow it to go too far.” 

How could he prevent it going as far as she pleased? she said ta 
herself with a little scorn, when she was alone. Parents may be 
mediaeval, if they will; but yet the means have never 3^et been in- 
vented of preventing a woman, when she is so minded and has the 
power in her hands, from achieving her little triumph over a young 
man’s heart. 


A HOrSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


119 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Wheue is George? I scarcely ever see him,” said the general 
^ in querulous tones. “He is always after that girl of Waring’s. 
i Why don’t you try to kee'p him at home?” 

Mrs. Gaunt did not say that she had done her best to keep him at 
home, but found her efforts unsuccessful. She said apologetically: 
“He has so very little to amuse him here; and the music, you 
know, is a great bond.” 

“He plays like a beginner; and she, like a — like — as well as a 
professional. I don’t understand what kind of bond that can be.” 

So much the greater a compliment is it to George that she likes 
his playing,” responded the mother promptly. 

“She likes to make a fool of him, I think,” the general said; 
“ and you help her on. I don’t understand your tactics. Women 
generally like to keep their sons free from such entanglements; and 
after getting him safely out of India, where e rery man is bound to 
fall into mischief — ” 

“ Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Gaunt, “ if it ever should come to that 
— think what an excellent connection. I wish it had been Frances; 
I do wish it had been Frances. I had always set my heart on that. 
But the connection would be the same.” 

“ You knew nothing about the connection when you set your 
heart on Frances. And I can’t help thinking there is something 
odd about the connection. ’ Why should that girl have come here, 
and why should the other one be spirited away like a transforma- 
tion-scene?” 

“ Well, my dear, it is in the peerage,” said Mrs. Gaunt. “ Great 
families, we all know, are often very queer in their arrangements. 
But there can be no doubt it is all right, for it is in the peerage. If 
it had been Frances, I should have been too happy. With such a 
connection, he could not fail to get on,” 

“ He had much better get on by his own merits,” retorted - the 
general, with a grumble, “ Frances! Frances was not to be com- 
pared with this girl. But I don’t believe she means anything more 
than amusing herself,” he added. “ This is not the sort of girl to 
marry a poor soldier without a penny — not she. She will take her 
fun out of him, and then — ” 

The general kissed the end of his fingers and tossed them into the 
air. He was, perhaps, a little annoyed that his son had stepped in 
and monopolized the most amusing member of the society. And 
perhaps he did not think so badly of George’s chances as he said, 

“You may be sure,” said Mrs. Gaunt, indignantly, “ she will do 
nothing of the kind. It is not every day that a girl gets a fine fel- 
low like our George at her feet. He is just a little too much at her 
feet, which is always a mistake, I think. But still, general, you 
can not but allow that Lord Markham’s sister — ” 

“ I have never seen much good come of great connections,” said 
the general; but though his tone was that of a skeptic, his mind was 


120 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


softer than liis speech. He, too, felt a certain elation in the thought 
that the youngest, who was not the clever one of the family, and 
who had not been quite so steady as might have been desired, was 
thus in the way of putting himself above the reach of fate. For, 
of course, to be brother-in-law to a viscount was a good thing. It 
might not be of the same use as in the days when patronage ruled 
supreme; but still it would be folly to suppose that it was not an 
advantage. It would admit George to circles with which otherwise 
he could have formed no acquaintance, and make him known to 
people who could push him in his profession. George was the one 
about whom they had been most anxious. All the others were 
doing well in their way, though not a way which threw them into 
contact with viscounts or tine society. George would be over all 
their heads in that respect, and he was the one that wanted it most, 
he was the one who was most dependent on outside aid. 

“ I don’t quite understand,” said Mrs. Gaunt, “ what Constance’s 
position is. She ought to be the honorable, don’t you thipk?- The 
Honorable Constance sounds very pretty. It W'ould come in very 
nicely with Gaunt, which is an aristocratic-sounding name. People 
may say what they like about titles, but they are very nice, there is 
such individuality in them. Mrs. George might be anybody; it 
might be me, as your name is George, too. But the honorable 
would distinguish it at once. When she called here there was only 
Miss Constance Waring written on her father’s card; but then you 
don’t put honorable on your card; and as Lady Markham’s 
daughter — ’ ’ 

“Women don’t count,” said the general, “as I’ve often told 
you. She’s Waring’ s daughter.” 

“ Mr. Waring may be a very clever man,” said Mrs. Gaunt, in- 
dignantly; “ but I should like to know how Constance can be the 
daughter of a viscountess in her own ri2:ht without — ” 

“ Is she a viscountess in her own right?” 

This question brought Mrs. Gaunt to a sudden pause. She 
looked at him with a startled air. “ It is not through Mr. Waring, 
that is clear,” she said. 

“ But it is not in her own right — at least, I don’t think so; it is 
through her first husband, the father of that funny little creature ’ ’ 
(meaning Lord Markham). 

“General!” said Mrs. Gaunt, shocked. Then she added: “I 
must make some excuse to look at the peerage this afternoon. The 
Durants have always got their peerage on the table. We shall have 
to send for one, too, if — ” 

“ If what? If your boy gets a wife who has titled connections, 
for that is all. A wife! and wLat is he to keep her on, in the name 
of heaven?” 

“Mothers and brothers are tolerably close connections,” said 
Mrs. Gaunt, with dignity. “ He has got his pay, general; and you 
always intended, of course, if he married to your satisfaction— Of 
course,” she added, speaking very quickly, to forestall an outburst, 
“Lady Markham will not leave her daughter dependent upon a 
captain’s pay. And even Mr. Waring— Mr. Waring must have a 
fortime of Ms own, or— or a person like that would never have 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


121 

married him; and he would not be able to live as he does, very 
comfortably, even luxuriously — ” 

“ Oh, I suppose he has enough to live on. But as for pinching 
himself in order to enable his girl to marry your boy, I don’t believe 
a word of it, ’ ’ exclaimed the general. Fortunately, being carried 
away by this wave of criticism, he had forgotten his wife’s allusion 
to his own intentions in George’s favor; and this was a subject on 
which she had no desire to be premature. 

“Well, general,” she said, “perhaps we are going a little too 
fast. We don’t know yet whether anything will come of it. 
George is rather a lady’s man. It may be only a flirtation; it may 
end in nothing. We need not begin to count our chickens — ” 

“ Why, it was you!” cried the astonished general. “I never 
should have remarked anything about it, or wasted a moment’s 
thought on the subject!” 

Mrs. Gaunt was not a clever woman, skilled in the art of leaving 
conversational responsibilities on the shoulders of her interlocutor; 
but if a woman is not inspired on behalf of her youngest boy, when 
is she to be inspired? She gave her shoulders the slightest possible 
shrug and left him to his newspaper. They had a newspaper from 
England every morning — the ‘ ‘ Standard, ’ ’ whose reasonable Con* 
servatism suited the old general. Except in military matters, such 
questions as the advance of Kussia toward Afghanistan,. or the de- 
fenses of our own coasts, the general was not a bigot, and preferred 
his politics mild, with as little froth and foam as possible. His 
newspaper afforded him occupation for the entire morning, and he 
enjoyed it in very pleasant wise, seated under his veranda with a 
faint suspicion of lemon blossom in the air, which ruffled the young 
olive trees all around, and the blue breadths of the sea stretching 
far away at his feet. The garden behind was fenced in with lemon 
and orange trees, the fruit in several stages, and just a little point 
of blossom here and there, not enough to load the air. Mrs. Gaunt 
had preserved the wild-flowers that were natural to the place, and 
accordingly had a scarlet field of anemones which wanted no culti- 
vation, and innumerable clusters of the sweet white narcissus filling 
her little inclosure. These cost no trouble, and left Toni, the man- 
of-all-work, at leisure for the more profitable culture of the oranges. 
From where the general sat there was nothing visible, however, but 
the terraces descending in steps toward the distant glimpse of the 
road, and the light-blue margin, edged with spray of the sea, under 
a soft and cheering sun, that warmed to the heart, but did not 
scorch or blaze, and with a soft air playing about his old temples, 
breathing freshness and that lemon bloom. Sometimes there would 
come a faint sound of voices from some group of workers among 
the olives. The little clump of palm-trees at the end of the garden 
— for nothing here is perfect without a palm or two — cast a fantastic 
shadow, that waved over the newspaper now and then. When a 
man is old and has done his work, what can he want more than this 
sweet retirement and stillness? But naturally, it was not all that 
was necessary to young Captain George. 

Mrs. Gaunt went over to the Durants in the afternoon, as she so 
often did, and found that family, as usual, on their loggia. It cost 
her a little trouble and diplomacy to get a private inspection of the 


122 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Peerage, and even when she did so, it threw hut little light upon 
her question, Geoffrey Viscount Markham, tifteenth lord, w'as a 
name wdiich she read with a little flutter of her heart, feeling that 
he w^as already almost a relation, and she read over the names of 
Markham Priory and Dunmorra, his lodge in the Highlands, and 
the town address in Eaton Square, all with a sense that by and by 
she might herself be directing letters from one or other of these 
places. But the Peerage said nothing about the dowager Lady 
Markham subsequent to the conclusion of iLe first marriage, except 
that she had married again, /E. Waring/* Esq. ; and thus Mrs. » 
Gaunt’s studies came to no satisfactory end. She introduced the 
subject, however, in the course of tea. She had asked whether any 
one had heard from Frances, and had received a satisfactory reply. 

“ Oh, yes; I have had two letters; but she does not say very 
much. They had gone down to the Priory for Easter; and she was 
to be presented at the first drawing-room, Fancy Frances in a 
court- train and feathers, at a drawing-room! It does seem so very 
strange,” Tasie said. She said it with a slight sigh, for it was she, 
in old times, who had' expounded Society to little Frances, and 
taught her what in an emergency it would be right to do and say; 
and now little Frances had taken a stride in advance. “ I asked 
her to write and tell us all about it, and what she wore.” . 

“ It would be white, of course.” 

“ Oh, yes, it would be white — a debutante. When i went to 
drawing-rooms,” said Mrs, Durant, who had once, in the character 
•of chaplainess to an embassy, made her courtesy to Her Majesty, 

“ young ladies’ toilets were simpler than now. Frances will prob- 
ably be in white satin, which, except for a w^edding dress, is quite 
unsuitable, I think, for a girl.” 

“ I wonder if we shall see it in the papers? Sometimes, my 
sister-in-law sends me a ‘ Queen,’ ” said Mrs. Gaunt, “ when she 
thinks there is something in it wdiich will interest me; but she does 
not know anything about Frances. Dear little thing, I can’t think 
of her in white satin. Her sister, now — ” 

“ Constance v^ould wear velvet, if she could — or cloth of gold,” 
cried Tasie, with a little irritation. Her mother gave her a reprov- 
ing glance. 

“ There is a tone in your voice, Tasie, which is not kind.” 

“ Oh, yes; I know, mamma. But Constance is rather a trial. I 
know one ought not to show it. She looks as . if one was not good 
enough to tic her^hoes. And after all, she is no better than Fran- 
ces; she is not half so nice as Frances; but I mean there can be no 
difference of position between sisters — one is just as good as the 
other; and Frances was so fond of coming here.” 

“ Do you think Constance gives herself airs? Oh, no, dear 
Tasie,” said Mrs. Gaunt; “ she is really not at all — when you come 
to know her. I am most fond of Frances myself. Frances has 
grown up among us, and we know all about her; that is what 
makes the difference. And Constance — is a little shy.” 

At this there was a cry from the family. “ I don’t think she is 
shy,” said the old clergyman, whom Constance had insulted by 
walking out of church before the sermon. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 123 

^ “Shy!” exclaimed Mrs. Durant, “about as shy as — ” But no 
simile occurred to her which was bold enough to meet the case. 

“ It is better she should not be shy,” said Tasie. “ You remem- 
ber how she drove those people from the hotel to church. They 
have come ever since. They are quite afraid of her. Oh, there 
are some good things in her, some very good things.” 

“We are the more hard to please, after knowing Frances,” re- 
peated Mrs. Gaunt. “ But when a girl has been like that, used to 
the best society — By the way, Mr. Durant, you who know every- 
thing, are sure to know — Is she the honorable? For my part, I 
can’t quite make it out.” 

Mr. Durant put on his spectacles to look at her, as if such a ques- 
tion passed the bounds of the permissible. He was very imposing 
wdien he looked at any one through those spectacles with an air of 
mingled astonishment and superiority. ‘ ‘ Why should she be an 
honorable?” he said. 

Mrs. Gaunt felt as if she would like to sink into the abysms of 
the earth — that is, through the floor of the loggia, whatever might 
be the dreadful depths underneath. “ Oh, I don’t know,” she said, 
meekly. “ I — I only thought — her mother being a — a titled person, 
a — a viscountess in her own right — ’ ’ 

“But, my dear lady,” said Mr. Durant, with a satisfaction in 
his superior knowledge which was almost unspeakable, “ Lady 
Markham is Tici a viscountess in her own right. Dear, no. She is 
not a viscountess at all. She is plain Mrs. Waring, and nothing 
else, if right was right. Society only winks good-naturedly at her 
retaining the title, which she certainly, if there is any meaning in 
the peerage at all, forfeits by marrying a commoner. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Durant and Tasie both looked with great admiration at their 
head and instructor as he thus spoke. “You maybe sure Mr. 
Durant says nothing that he is not quite sure of, ” said the wife, 
crushing any possible skepticism on the part of the inquirer; and 
“ papa knows such a lot,” added Tasie, awed, yet smiling, on her 
side. 

“ Oh, is that all?” said Mrs. Gaunt, greatly subdued. “But 
then. Lord Markham — calls her his sister, you know.” 

, “ The nobility,” said Mr. Durant, “ are always very scrupulous 

about relationships; and she is his step-sister. He wouldn’t qualify 
the relationship by calling her so. A common person might do so, 
but not a man of high breeding, like Lord Markham — that is all.” 

“ I suppose you must be right,” said Mrs. Gaunt. “ The general 
said so, too. But it does seem very strange to me that of the same 
woman’s children, and she a lad;^ of title, one should be a lord, and 
the other have no sort of distinction at all.” They all smiled upon 
her blandly, every one ready with a new piece of information, and 
much sympathv for her ignorance, which Mrs. Gaunt, seeing that 
it was she that was likely to be related to Lord Markham, and not 
any of the Durants, felt that she could not bear; so she jumped up 
hastily and declared that she must be going, that the general would 
be waiting for her. “I hope you will come over some evening, 
and I will ask the Warings, and Tasie must bring hp music. I am 
sure you would like to hear George’s violin. He is getting on so 


124 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


well, with Constance to play his accompaniments;” and before any 
one could reply to her, Mrs. Gaunt had hurried away. 

It is painful not to have time to get out your retort; and these 
excellent people turned instinctively upon each other to discharge 
the unflown arrows. “It is so very easy, with a little trouble, to 
understand the titles, complimentary and otherwise, of our own 
nobility,” said Mr. Durant, shaking his head. 

“ And such a sign of want of breeding not to understand them,” 
said his wife. 

“The Honorable Constance would sound very pretty,” cried 
Tasie; “ it is such a pity.” 

‘ ‘ Especially, our friend thinks, if it was the Honorable Constance 
Gaunt.” 

“That she could never be, my dear,” said the old clergyman, 
mildly. “ She might be the Honorable Mrs. Gaunt; but Constance, 
no — not in any case. ’ ’ 

“ I should like to know why?” Mrs. Durant said. 

Perhaps here the excellent chaplain’s knowledge failed him; or 
he' had become weary of the subject; for he rose and said: “ I have 
really no more time for a matter which does not concern us,” and 
trotted away. 

The mother and daughter left alone together, naturally turned to 
a point more interesting than the claims of Constance to rank. “ Do 
you really think, mamma,” said Tasie, “ do you really, really think 
— it is silly to be always discussing these sort of questions — but do 
you believe that Constance Waring actually — means anything?” 

“ You should say does George Gaunt mean anything? The girl 
never comes first in such a question,” said Mrs. Durant, with that 
ingrained contempt for girls which often appears in elderly women. 
Tasie was so (traditionally) young, besides having a heart of sixteen 
in her bosom, that her sympathies were all with the girl. 

“ I don’t think in this case, mamma,” she said. “ Constance is 
so much more a person of the world than any of us. I don’t mean 
to say she is worldly. Oh, no! but having been in society, and so 
much out. ’ ’ / 

“ I should like to know in what kind of society she has been,” 
said Mrs. Durant, who took gloomy views. “ I (lon’t want to say 
a word against Lady Markham; but society, Tasie, the kind of so- 
ciety to which your father and I have been accustomed, looks rather 
coldly upon a wife living apart from her husband. Oh, I don’t 
mean to say Lady Markham was to blame. Probably, she is a most 
excellent person ; but the presumption is that at least, you know, 
there were — faults on both sides. ’ ’ 

“lam sure I can’t give an opinion,” cried Tasie, “ for, of course, 
I don’t know anything about it. But George Gaunt has nothing 
but his pay; and Constance couldn’t be in love with him, could 
she? Oh, no! I don’t know anything about it; but I can’t think a 
girl like Constance — ” 

“ A girl in a false position,” said the chaplain’s wife, “ is often 
glad to marry any one, just for a settled place in the world.” 

“ Oh, but not Constance, mamma! I am sure she is just amusing 
herself.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 125 

“ Tasie! you speak as if she were the man,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Durant, in a tone of reproof. 


CHAPTER XX. 

The subjects of these consultations were at the moment in the 
full course of a sonata, and oblivious of everything else in the 
world but themselves, their music, and their concerns generally. 
A fortnight had passed of continual intercourse, of much music, of 
that propinquity which is said to originate more matches than any 
higher influence. Nothing can be more curious than the pleasure 
which young persons, and even persons who are no longer young, 
find perennially in this condition of suppressed love-making, this 
pre-occupation of all thoughts and plans in the series of continually 
recurring meetings, the confidences, the divinations, the endless 
talk which is never exhausted, and in which the most artificial be- 
ings in the world probably reveal more of themselves than they 
themselves know — when the edge of emotion is always being 
touched, and very often bj^ one of the pair at least overpassed, in 
either a comic or a tragic wa5^ It is not necessaiy that there should 
be any real charm in either party, and what is still more extraordi- 
nary, it is possible enough that one may be a person of genius, and 
the other not far removed from a fool ; that one may be simple as 
a rustic, and the other a man or woman of the world. No rule, in 
short, holds in those extraordinary yet most common and everyday 
conjunctions. There is an amount of amusement, excitement, 
variety", to be found in them which is in no other kind of diversion. 
This IS the great reason, no doubt, why flirtation never fails. It is 
dangerous, which helps the effect. For those sinners who go into 
it voluntarily for the sake of amusement, it has all the attractions 
of romance and the drama combined. If they are intellectual, it is 
a study of human character; in all cases, it is an interest which 
quickens the color and the current of life. Who can tell why or 
how? It is not the disastrous love-makings that end in misery and 
sin of which we spehk. It is those which are practiced in society 
every day, which sometimes end in a heart-break, indeed, but often 
in nothing at all. 

Constance was not unacquainted with the amusement, though .she 
was so young; and it is to be feared that she re.s<^rted to it deliber- 
ately for the amusement of her otherwise dull life at the Palazzo, 
in the first shock of her loneliness, when she felt herself abandoned. 
It was, of course, the victim himself who had first put the sugges- 
tion and the means of carrying it out into her hands. And she did 
not take it up in pure wantonness, but actually gave a thought to 
him, and the effect it might produce upon him, even in the very act 
of entering upon her diversion. She .said to herself that Captain 
Gaunt, too, was very dull; that he would want something more 
than the society of his father and mother; that it would be a kind- 
ness to the old people to make his life amusing to him, since in that 
case he would stay, and in the other, not. And as for himself, if 


126 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


the worst came to the worst, and he fell seriously in love — as, in- 
deed, seemed rather likely, judging from the fervor of the begin- 
ning— even that, Constance calculated, would do him no permanent 
harm. “ Men have died,” she said to herself, ” but not for love.” 
And then there is that famous phrase about a liberal education. 
What was it? To love her was a liberal education? Something of 
that sort. Then it could only be an advantage to him; for Con- 
stance was aware that she herself was cleverer, more cultivated, 
and generally far more “ up to ” everything than young Gaunt. If 
he had to pay for it by a disappointment, really everybody had to 
pay for their education in one way or another; and if he were dis- 
appointed it would be his own fault, for he must know very well, 
everybody must know, that it was quite out of the question she 
should marry him in any circumstances — entirely out of the ques- 
tion; unless he was an absolute simpleton, or the most presumptu- 
ous young coxcomb in the world, he must see that; and if he were 
one or the other, the discovery would do him all the good in the 
world. Thus Constance made it out fully, and to her own satisfac- 
tion, that in any case the experience could do him nothing but good. 

Things had gone very far during this fortnight — so far, that she 
sometimes had a doubt whether they had not gone far enough. For 
one thing, it had cost her a great deal in the way of music. She 
was a very accomplished musician for her age, and poor George 
Gaunt was one of the greatest bunglers that ever began the studj^ 
of the violin. It may be supposed what an amusement this inter- 
course was to Constance, when it is said that she bore with his 
violin like an angel, laughed and scolded and encouraged and pulled 
him along till he believed that he could play the waltzes of Chopin 
and many other things which were as far above him as the empy- 
rean is above earth. When he paused, bewildered, imploring her 
to go on, assuring her that he could catch her up, Constance, be- 
trayed no horror, but only laughed till the tears came. She would 
turn round upon her music-stool sometimes and rally him with a 
free use of a superior kind of slang, which was unutterably solemn, 
and quite unknown to the young soldier, who labored conscien- 
tiously with hi^ fiddle in the evenings and mornings, till General 
Gaunt’s life became a burden to him — in a vain effort to elevate 
himself to a standard with which she might be Satisfied. He went 
to practice in the morning; he went in the afternoon, to ask if she 
thought of making any expedition? to suggest that his mother 
wished very much to take him to see this or that, and had sent him 
to ask would Miss Waring come? Constance was generally quite 
willing to come, and not at all afraid to walk to the bungalow with 
him, where, perhaps, old Luca’s carriage would be standing, to 
drive them along the dusty road to the opening of some valley, 
while Mrs. Gaunt, not a good climber, she allowed, would sit and 
wait for them till they had explored the dell, or inspected the little 
town seated at its head. Captain Gaunt was more punctilious about 
his mother’s presence as chaperon than Constance was, who felt 
quite at her ease roaming with him among the terraces of the olive 
woods. It was altogether so idyllic, so innocent, that there was no 
occasion for any conventional safeguards, and there was nobody to 
see them or remark upDn the prolonged tete d-tete. Constance came 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 127 

to know tlie young fellow far Letter than his mother did, better 
than he himself did, in these walks and talks. 

“ Miss Waring, don’t laugh at a fellow. I know I deserve it. 
Oh, yes, do, if you like. I had rather you laughed than closed the 
piano. I had a good long grind at it this morning; but somehow 
these triplets are more than I can fathom. Let us have that move- 
ment again, will 5^ou? Oh, not if you afe tried. As long as you’ll 
let me sit and talk. I love music with all my heart, but' I love—” 

” Chatter,” said Constance. ” I know' you do. It is not a dig- 
nified word to apply to a gentleman; but 3^011 know. Captain Gaunt, 
you do love to chatter.” 

” Anything to please j'ou,” said the young man. ” That w'asn’t 
how I intended to end my sentence. I love to — chatter, if you like, 
as long as you wfill listen — or play, or do an3dhing; as long as — ” 

“ You must allows” said Constance, ” that I listen admirably. I 
am thoroughly w^ell up in all 3'our subjects. I know the station as 
well as if I lived there.” 

“Don’t say that,” he cried; “it makes a man beside himself. 
Oh, if there w'as any chance that 3"ou might ever — I think — I’m 
almost sure — 3'ou w'ould like the society in India — it’s so easy; 
everybody’s so kind. A — a young couple, 3'ou know, as long as 
the lady is — delightful.” 

“ But I am not a young couple,” said Constance, with a smile. 
“You sometimes confuse 3'our plurals in the funniest wa3\ Is 
that Indian, too? Now, come. Captain Gaunt, let us get on. Be- 
gin at the andante. One, tw^o — three! Now, let’s get on.” 

And then a few bars would be played, and then she w’ould turn 
sharp round upon the music-stool and take the violin out of his 
astonished hands. 

“ Oh! w^hat a shriek! It goes through and through one’s head. 
Don’t you think an instrument has feelings? That w'as a cry of the 
poor ill-used fiddle, 1 hat could bear no more. Give it to me.” She 
took the bow in her hands, and leaned the instrument tenderly 
against her shoulder. “ It should be played like this,” she said. 

“ Miss Waring, you can play the violin, too?” 

“ A little,” she said, leaning dow'ii her soft cheek against it, as if 
she loved it, and drawing a charmingly sympathetic harmony from 
the ill-used strings, 

“ I will never play again,” cried the 3^oung man. “ Yes, I will — 
to touch it where 3^ou have touched it. Oh, I think you can do 
everything, and make eveiy thing perfect 3^ou look at.” 

“No!” said Constance, shaking her head as she ran the bow 
softly, so softly over the strings; “ for you are not perfect at all, 
though I have looked at 3'Ou a great deal. Look! this is the way to 
do it. I am not going to accompany 3^ou any more. I am going to 
give you lessons. Take it now, and let me see 3''Ou play that pas- 
sage, Louder, softer — louder. Come, that was better, I think I 
shall make something of you after all.” 

“ You can make anything of me,” said the poor young soldier, 
w'ith his lips on the place her cheek had touched, “ whatever you 
please.” 

“ A first-rate violin-pla3vr, then,” said Constance. “ But I don’t 


1^8 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


think my power goes so high as that. Poor general, what does he 
say when you grind, as you call it, all the morning?” 

” Oh, mother smooths him down — that is the use of a mother.” 

” Is it?” said Constance, with an air of impartial inquiry. ” I 
didn’t know. Come, Captain Gaunt, we are losing all our time.” 

And then tant hien que mol, the sonata was got through. 

“lam glad Beethoven is dead,” said Constance as she closed the 
piano. “ He is safe from that at least; he can never hear us play. 
When you go home. Captain Gaunt, I advise you to take lodgings 
in some quite out-of-the-way place, about Russell Square, or Isling- 
ton, or somewhere, and grind, as j’^ou call it, till you are had up as 
a nuisance; or else — ” 

“ Or else — what. Miss Waring? Anything to please you.” 

“ Or else — give it up altogether,” Constance said. 

His face grew very long; he was very fond of his violin. “ If 
you think it is so hopeless as that — if you wish me to give it up 
altogether — ” 

“ Oh, not I. It amuses me. I like to hear you break down. It 
would be quite a pity if you were to give up, you lake my scolding 
so delightfully. Don’t give it up as long as you are here. Captain 
Gaunt. After that, it doesn’t matter what happens — to me.” 

“No,” he said, almost with a groan, “it doesn’t matter what 
happens after that — tome. It’s the peluge, you know,” said the 
poor young fellow. ‘ ‘ I wish the world would come to an end 
firet ” — thus unconsciously echoing the poet. “ But, Miss Waring,” 
he added, anxiously, coming a little closer, “ I may come back? 
Though I must go to London, it is not necessary I should stay 
there. I may come back?” 

“ Oh, I hope so. Captain Gaunt. What would your mother do if 
you did not come back? But I suppose she will be going away for 
the summer. Everybody leaves Bordighera in the summer, I hear.” 

“ I had not thought of that,” cried the young soldier. “ And you 
will be going, too?” 

“ I suppose so,” said Constance. “ Papa, 1 hope, is not so lost 
to every sense of duty as to let me spoil my complexion forever by 
staying here.^ 

“ That would be impossible,” he said, with eyes full of admira- 
tion. 

“ You intend that for a compliment. Captain Gaunt; but it is no 
compliment. It means either tliat I have no complexion to lose, or 
that I am one of those thick-skinned people who take no harm — 
neither of which is complimentary, nor true. I shall have to teach 
you how to pay compliments as well as how to play the violin. ’ ’ 

“ Ah, if you only would!” he cried. “ Teach me how to make 
myself what you like — how to speak, how to look, how — ” 

“Oh, that is a great deal too much,” she said. “I can not 
undertake all your education. Do you know it is close upon noon? 
Unless you are going to stay to breakfast — ” 

“ Oh, thanks. Miss Wearing! They will expect me at home. But 
you will give me a message to take back to my mother. I may 
come to fetch you to drive with her to-day?” 

‘ ‘ It must be dreadfully dull work for her sitting waiting while 
w^e explore.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 12^ 

Oh, not at all. She is never dull when she knows I am enjoy- 
ing myself — tlmt’s the mother’s way.” 

” Is it?” said Constance, with once more that air of acquiring in 
formation. “ I am not acquainted with that kind of mother. But 
do you think. Captain Gaunt, it is right to enjoy yourself, as you 
call it, at your mother’s cost?” 

He gave her a look of great doubt and trouble. ” Oh, Miss 
Waring, I don’t think you should put it so. My mother finds her 
pleasure in that — indeed, she does. Ask herself. Of course, I 
would not impose upon her, not for the world; hut she likes it, I 
nssure you she likes it. ’ ’ 

” It is very extraordinary that any one should like sitting in that 
carriage for hours with nothing to do. I will come with pleasure. 
Captain Gaunt. I will sit Avith your mother while ^ou go and take 
your Avalk. That will be more cheerful for all parties,” Constance 
said. 

Young Gaunt’s face grew half a mile long. He began to expos- 
tulate and explain; but Waring’s step was heard stirring in the next 
room, approaching the door, and the young man had no desire to 
see the master of the house with his watch in his hand, demanding 
to know why Domenico Avas so late. Captain Gaunt kneAv very 
well AA'hy Domenico was so late. He kneAV a Avay of conciliating 
the servants, though he had not yet succeeded Avith the young 
mistress. He said hurriedly, “ I will come for you at three,” and 
rushed aAvay. Waring came in at one door as Gaunt disappeared 
at the other. The delay of the breakfast Avas a practical matter, of 
which, Avithout any reproach of medisevalism, he had a right to 
complain. 

‘ ‘ If you must have this young felloAV eA'ery morning he may at 
least go aAA^ay in proper time,” he said, with his watch in his hand, 
as young Gaunt had di\dned. 

” Oh, papa, twelve is striking loud enough. You need not pro- 
duce your AA'atch at the same time.” 

“Then Avhy have I to Avait?” he said. There Avas something 
awful in his tone. But Domenico Avas equal to the occasion, worthy 
at once of the lover’s and of the father’s trust. At that moment. 
Captain Gaunt having been got aAvay Avhile the great bell of Bor- 
dighera Avas still sounding, the faithful Domenico threw open, per 
haps Avith a little more sound than was necessary, and ostentation 
of readiness, the dining-room door. 

The meal was a somewhat silent one. Perhaps Constance was 
pondering the looks Avhich she had not been able to ignore, the 
Avoi ds Avliich she had managed to quench like so many fiery arrows 
before they could set fire to anything, of her eager lover, and was 
pale and a little preoccupied in spite of herself, feeling that things 
Avere going further than she intended; and perhaps her father, feel 
ing the situation too serious, and remonstrance inevitable, was 
silenced by the thought of what he had to say. It is so difficult in 
such circumstances for tAvo people, Avith no relief from any third 
party, Avithout even the Avholesome regard for the servant in attend- 
ance, which keeps the peace during many a family crisis — for with 
Domenico, Avho kncAV no English, they were as safe as Avhen they 
were alone — it is very difficult to find subjects for conversation that 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


130 

will not lead direct to the very heart of the matter which is being" 
postponed. Constance could not talk of her music, for Gaunt was 
associated with it. She could not speak of her walk, for he was 
her invariable companion. She could ask no questions about the 
neighborhood, for was it not to make her acquainted with the 
neighborhood that all those expeditions were being made? The 
great bouquet of anemones which blazed in the center of the table 
came from Mrs. Gaunt’s garden. She began to think that she was 
buying her amusement too dearly. As for Waring, his mind was 
not so full of these references, but he was occupied by the thoughts 
of what he had to say to this headstrong girl, and by a strong sense 
that he was an ill-used man, in having such responsibilities thrust 
upon him against his will. Frances would not have led him into 
such difficulties. To Frances, young Gaunt would have been no 
more interesting than his father; or so at least this man, whose ex- 
perience had taught him so little, was ready to believe. 

‘ ‘ I want to say something to you, Constance, ’ ’ he began at 
length, after Domenico had left the room. “You must not stop 
my mouth by remarks about middle-aged parents. I am a middle- 
aged parent, so there is an end of it. Are you going to marry 
George Gaunt?” . 

“ I — going to marry George Gaunt! Papa!” 

“You had better, I think,” said her father. “ It wdll save us all 
a great deal of embarrassment. I should not have recommended it, 
had 1 been consulted at the beginning. But you like to be inde- 
pendent and have your own way; and the best thing you can do is 
to marry. I don’t know how your mother will take it; but so far 
as I am concerned, I think it would save everybody a great deal of 
trouble You will be able to turn him round your finger; that will 
suit you, though the want of money may be in your way.” 

” I think you must mean to insult me, papa,” said Constance, 
who had grown crimson 

‘‘That is all nonsense, my dear. I am suggesting wdiat seems 
the best thing in the circumstances, to set us all at our ease.” 

” To get rid of me, you mean,” she cried. 

” I have not t^en any steps to get rid of you. I did not invite 
you, in the first place, you will remember; you came of your own 
will. But 1 was very willing to make the best of it. I let Frances 
go, who suited me, whom I had brought up — for your sake. All 
the rest has been your doing. Young Gaunt was never invited by 
me. 1 have had no hand in those rambles of yours. But since you 
find so much pleasure in his society — ” 

‘‘ Papa! You know I don’t find pleasure in his society; you 
know — ” 

•' Then why do you seek it?” said Waring, "with that logic which 
is so cruel. 

Constance, on the other side of the table, w'as as red as the 
anemones, and far more brilliant in the glow of passion. ” I have 
not sought it,” she cried. I have let him come — that is all. I 
have gone when Mrs. Gaunt asked me. Must a girl marry any man 
that chooses to be silly? Can I help it, if he is so vain? It is only 
vanity,” she said, springing up from her chair, ‘‘ that makes men 
think a girl is always ready to marry. What should I marry for? 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


131 


If I had wanted to marry — Papa, I don’t want to be disagreeable, 
but it is vulgar, if you force me to say it — it is common to talk to 
me so. ’ ’ 

“ I might retort,” said Waring. 

“ Oh, yes, I know you might retort. It is common to amuse 
one’s self. So is it common to breathe and move about, and like a 
little fun when you are young. I have no fun here. There is no- 
body to talk to, not a thing to do. How do you suppose I am to 
get on? How can I live without something to take up my time?” 

“ Then you must take the consequences.” 

In spite of herself Constance felt a shiver of alarm. She began 
to speak, then stopped suddenly, looked at him with a look of 
mingled defiance and terror, and — what was so unlike her, so com- 
mon, so weak, as she felt — began to cry, notwithstanding all she 
could do to restrain herself. To hide this unaccountable weakness she 
hastened off and hid herself in her room, making as if she had gone 
off in resentment. Better that, than that he should see her crying 
like any silly girl. All this had got on her nerves, she explained to 
herself afterward. The consequences! Constance held her breath 
as they became dimly apparent to her in an atmosphere of horror. 
George Gaunt, no longer an eager lover, whom it was amusing, 
even exciting to draw on, to see just on the eve of a self -committal, 
which it was the greatest fun in the world to stop, before it went 
too far— but the master of her destinies, her constant and insepara- 
ble companion, from whom she could never get free, by whom she 
must not even say that she was bored to death — gracious powers! 
and with so many other attendant horrors. 

To go to India with him, or fall into the life of the station, 
to march with the regiment. Constance’s lively imagination pictured 
a baggage-wagon, with herself on the top, which made her laugh 
But the reality was not laughable, it was horrible. The conse- 
quences! No; she would not take the consequences. She would 
sit with Mrs. Gaunt in the carriage, and let him take his walk by 
himself. She would begin to show him the extent of his mistake 
from that very day. To take any sharper measures, to refuse to go 
out with him at all, she thought, on consideration, not necessary 
The gentler measures first, which perhaps he might be wise enough 
to accept. 

But if he did not accept them, what was Constance to do? She 
had run away from an impending catastrophe, to take refuge with 
her father. But with whom could she take refuge, if he continued 
to hold his present strain of argument? And unless he would go 
away of himself how was she to shake off this young soldier? She 
did not want to shake him off; he was all the amusement she had. 
What was she to do? 

There glanced across her mind for a moment a sort of desperate 
gleam of reflection from her father’s words: ” You like to be inde- 
pendent; the best thing you can do is to marry.” There was a 
kind of truth in it, a sort of distorted truth such as was likely 
enough to come through the medium of a mind so wholly at van 
ance witli established forms of truth. Independent— there was 
.something in that; and India was fill of novelty, amusing, a sort 
of world she had no experience of. A tremor of excitement got 


132 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 

into lier nerves as slie heard the bell ring, and knew that he had 
come for her. He! the only individual who was at all interesting: 
for the moment, whom she held in her hands, to do what she pleased 
with. She could turn him round her little finger, as her father 
said; and independence! Was it a Mephistopheles that was tempt- 
ing her, or a good angel leading her the right way? 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Frances remembered little of the journey after it was over. She 
was keeenly conscious at the time, if there can be any keen con- 
sciousness of a thing which is all vague, which conveys no clear 
idea. Through the darkness of the night, which came on before 
she had left the coast she knew, with all those familiar towns 
gleaming out as she passed — Mentone, Monaco on its headland, the 
sheltering bays which kept so warm and bright those cities of sick- 
ness, of idleness, and pleasure, the palms, the olives, the oranges,, 
the aloe hedges, the roses and heliotropes — there was a confused 
and breathless sweep of distance, half in the dark, half in the 
light, the monotonous plains, the lines of poplars, the straight high- 
roads of France. Paris, where they stayed for a night, was only 
like a bigger, noisier, vast railway station, to Frances. She had no 
time, in the hurry of her journey, in the still greater hurry of her 
thoughts, to realize that here was the scene of that dread Revolu- 
tion of which she had read with shuddering excitement — that she 
was driven past the spot where the guillotine was first set up, and 
through the streets where the tumbrels had rolled, carrying to that 
dread death the many lender victims, who were all she knew of 
that great convulsion of history. 

Markham, who was so good to her, put his head out of the car- 
riage and pointed to a series of great windows flashing with light. 

What a pity there’s no time,” he said. She asked ” For What?”^ 
with the most complete want of comprehension. “ For shopping,, 
of course,” he said, wi til a laugh. For shopping! She seemed to- 
be unacquainted with the meaning of the words. In the midst of 
this strange wave of the unknown which was carrying her away, 
carrying her to a world more unknown still, to suppose that she 
could pause and think of shopping! The inappropriateness of the 
suggestion bewildered Frances. Markham, indeed, altogether 
bewildered her. He was very good to her, attending to her 
comfort, watchful over her needs in a way which Frances- 
could not have imagined possible. Her father had never been un- 
kind; but it did not occur to him to take care of her. It was she 
who took care of him. If there was anything forgotten, it was she 
who got the blame; and when he wanted a book, or his writing- 
desk, or a rug to put over his knees, he called to his little girl to 
hand it to him, without the faintest conception that there was any- 
thing incongruous in it. And there was nothing incongruous in it. 
If there is any one in the world whom it is natural to send on your 
errands, to get you what you want, surely your child is that person. 
Waring did not think on the subject, but simply did so by instinct, 
by nature; and equally by instinct Frances obeyed, "without a 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


133 

doubt that it was her simplest duty. If Markham had said : ‘ ‘ Get 
me my book, Frances; dear child, just open that bag — hand me 
so-and-so,” she would have considered it the most natural thing in 
the world. What he did do surprised her much more. He tripped 
in and out of his seat at her smallest suggestion. He pulled up and 
down the window at her pleasure, never appearing to think that it 
mattered whether he liked it or not. He took her out carefully on 
his arm, and made her dine, not asking what she would have, as 
her father might perhaps have done, but bringing her the best that 
was to be had, choosing what she should eat, serving her as if she 
had been the queen! It contributed to the dizzying effect of the 
rapid journey that she should thus have been placed in a position 
so different from any that she had ever known. 

And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden -gray 
stormy sea, which was so unlike those blue ripples that came up 
just so far — no further, on the beach at Bordighera. She began to 
understand what is said in the Bible about the waves that mount up 
like mountains, when she saw the roll of the Channel. She had 
always a little wondered what that meant. To be sure, there were 
storms now and then along the Riviera, when the blue edge to the 
sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep purple, solemn 
enough for a king’s pall, as it has been the pall of so many a brave 
man ; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening lash 
of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised 
their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line 
of green, so sodden and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? 
The heart of Frances sunk; it was not like her anticipations. She 
had thought there would be something triumphant, grand, about 
the aspect of England — something proud, like a monarch of the 
sea; and It was only a damp, grayish- white line, rising not very far 
out of those sullen waves. An east wind was blowing with that 
blighting grayness which here, in the uttermost parts of the earth, 
w^e are so well used to; and it was cold. A gleam of pale sun 
indeed shot out of the clouds from time to time; but there was no 
real warmth in it, and the effect of everything was depressing. The 
green fields and hedgerows cheered her a liltle, but it was all damp, 
and the sky was gray. And then London, with a roar and noise as 
if she had fallen into a den of wild beasts, and throngs, multitudes 
of people at every little station which the quick train flashed past, 
and on the platform, wdiere at last she arrived dizzy and faint with 
fatigue and wonderment. But Markham always was more kind 
than words could say He Bympathized with her, seeing her for- 
lorn looks at everything. He did not ask her how she liked it, what 
she thought of her native country. When they arrived at last, he 
found out miraculously, among the crowd of carriages, a quiet 
little, dark-colored brougham, and put her into it. ” We’ll trundle 
off home,” he said, “you and I, Fan, and let John look after the 
things; you are so tired you can scarcely speak.” 

“ Not so much tired,” said Frances, and tried to smile, but could 
not say any more. 

“I understand.” He took her hand into his with the kindest 
caressing touch. “ You mustn’t be.frightened, my dear There’s 
nothing to be frightened about. You’ll like my mother. Perhaps 


134 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


it was silly. of me to say that, and make you cry. Don’t cry, Fan, 
or I shall cry too. I am the foolishest little beggar, you know, and 
always do what my companions do. Don’t make a fool of your old 
brother, my dear. There, look out and see what a beastly place old 
London is. Fan.” 

” Don’t call me, Fan,” she cried, this slight initation ajffording 
her an excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous ex- 
citement in her. ” Call me Frances, Markliam.” 

” Life’s too short for a name in two syllables. I’ve got two sylla- 
bles myself, that’s true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you 
are welcome to, if you like. No; I shall call you Fan; you must 
make up your mind to it Did you ever see such murky heavy air? 
It isn’t air at all — it’s smoke and aniraalculse and everything that’s 
dreadful. It’s not like that blue stuif on the Riviera, is it?” 

” Oh, no!” cried Frances, with fervor. ” But I suppose London 
is better for some things,” she added with a doubtful voice. 

‘‘ Better! It’s better than any other place on the face of the 
earth; it’s the only place to live in,” said Markham. “Why, 
child, it is paradise ” — he paused a moment, and then added, “ with 
pandemonium next door.” 

“ Markham!” the girl cried. 

“ I was wrong to mention such a place in your hearing. I know 
I was. Never mind. Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall 
know nothing about the other. Why, here we are in Eaton Square.” 

The door flashed open as soon as the carriage stopped, letting out 
a flood of light and warmth. Markham almost lifted the trem- 
bling girl out. She had got her veil entangled about her head, her 
arms in the cloak which she had half thrown off. She was not 
prepared for this abrupt arrival. She seemed to see nothing bit 
the light, to know nothing until she found herself suddenly in 
some one’s arms; then the light seemed to go out of her eyes. Sight 
iiad nothing to do with the sensation, the warmth, the softness, the 
faint rustle, the faint perfume, with which she was suddenly en- 
circled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more. 

‘ ‘ Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate — I hope she is 
not given to fainting,” she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, 
before she felt able to open her eyes. 

“ Not a bit,” said Marldiam’s familiar tones. “ She’s overdone, 
and awfully anxious about meeting you.” 

“ My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting 
me?” said the other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive 
tone in it; and then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and 
caressing like the voice, upon the girl’s cheek. She did not yet 
open her eyes, half because she could not, half because she would 
not, but whispered in a faint little tentative utterance, “Mother!” 
wondering vaguely whether the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the 
voice, was all the mother she was to know. 

“ My poor little baby, my little girl! Open your eyes. Markham, 
I want to see the color of her eyes.” 

“ As if I could open her eyes for you!” cried Markham with a 
strange outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might 
have meant crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since 
he was a man. He seemed to walk away, and then came back again. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


135 

“ Come, Fan! that’s enough. Open your eyes, and look at us. I 
told you there was nothing to be frightened for. ’ ’ 

And then Frances raised herself; for, to her astonishment, she 
was lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. 
Beside her stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth 
brown hair like hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was 
aware she had herself a custom of clasping her hands. It began to 
dawn upon her that Constance had said she was very like mamma. 
This new-comer was beautifully dressed in soft black satin, that 
did not rustle — that was far, far too harsh a word — but swept softly 
about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and round her breathed 
that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother to her for 
ever and ever, an air that was infinitely soft, with a touch in it of 
some sweetness. Oh, not scent! She rejected the word with dis- 
dain — something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the 
curious ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and 
the excitement of tliis astounding plunge into the unknown, that 
was how she felt. 

“ Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown 
girl, Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby? She has never 
grown up, like the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for 
me, little Frances? Did you never want your mother, my darling? 
Often, often, I have lain awake in the night and cried for you.” 

“Oh, mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing 
herself into her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she 
had never known anything about her mother, to excuse herself at 
her father’s expense, was strong. But she kept back the words 
that were at her lips. “ I have always wanted this all my life,” she 
cried with a sudden impulse, and laid her head upon her mother’s 
breast, feeling in all the commotion and melting of her heart a con- 
sciousness of the accessories, the rich softness of the satin, the deli- 
cate perfume, all the details of the new personality by which her 
own was surrounded on every side. 

” Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “ it was no use part- 
ing this child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us — 
isn’t it, my darling? as if we had always been together — all the 
same in a moment. Come upstairs now, if you feel able, dear one. 
Do you think, Markham, she is able to walk upstairs?” 

” Oh, quite able, oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a mo- 
ment. I was — frightened, I think.” 

‘‘ But you will never be frightened any more,” said Lady Mark- 
ham, drawing the girl’s arm through her own, leading her away. 
Frances was giddy still, and stumbled as she went, though she had 
pledged herself never to be frightened again. She went in a dream 
up the softly carpeted stairs. She knew wliat handsome roonis 
were, the lofty bare grandeur of an Italian palazzo; but all this 
carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the warmth, the clothed 
and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could scarcely find her 
way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly furniture, to 
the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the tea-table, like, and 
yet how unlike that anxious copy of English ways which Frances 
had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a momentary 
gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better. 


136 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


thougli! not belonging to an ordinary modem set, like these; but, 
alas, in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up- 
stairs, through — as she thought — the sumptuous aiTangements of 
her mother’s room, to another smaller, which opened from it, and 
in which there was the same wealth of carpets, curtains, easy- 
chairs, and writing-tables, in addition to the necessary details of a 
sleeping- room. Frances looked round it admiringly. She knew 
nothing about the modern-artistic, though something, a very little, 
about old art. The painted ceilings and old gilding of the Falazzo 
— which she began secretly and obstinately to call home from this 
moment forth — were intelligible to her; but she was quite unac- 
quainted with Mr. Morris’s papers and the art fabrics at Liberty’s. 
She looked at them with admiration, but doubt. She thought the 
walls “ killed ” the pictures that were hung round, which were not 
like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little 
pang to her sister. “ Is this Constance’s room?” she asked timidly, 
called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether 
the transfer was to be complete. 

” No, my love; it is Frances’ room,” said Lady Markham. ” It 
has always been ready for 3 ^ou. I expected you to come some time. 
I have always hoped that; but I never thought that Con would de- 
sert me.” Her voice faltered a little, which instantly touched 
Frances’ heart. 

“I asked,” she said, “not just out of curiosity, but because, 
when she came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like 
these; they have very few things in them. There are no carpets; it 
is warmer there, you know; but I thought she would find the blue 
room so bare, I gave her mine.” 

Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the 
very faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was : 
“You have not many visitors, I suppose?” 

^Oh, none!” cried Frances. “I suppose we are — rather poor. 
We are not — like this.” 

“ My darling! you don’t know how to speak to me, your own 
mother? What do you mean, dear, by we ? You must learn to 
mean something else by we. Your father, if he had chosen, might 
have had — all that you see, and more. And Constance — But we 
will say nothing more to-night on that subject. This is Con’s 
room, see, on the other side of mine. It was always my fancy, my 
hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each side. ’ ’ 

Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with 
great interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropri- 
ated to lierself — more comfortable, as a room which has been oc- 
cupied, which shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must 
naturally be; and it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, 
while that of Frances’ looked to the side. 8he glanced round at all 
the fittings and decorations, which, to her unaccustomed ej^es, were 
so splendid. “ Poor Constance!” she said under her breath, 

“Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with 
something sharp and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said 
regretfully: “Poor Con! You think it will be disappointing to 
her, this other life which she has chosen. Was it — dreary for you, 
my poor child?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


137 


Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of Frances a kind of 
tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. “ It is the only life I 
know — it was — everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part 
of the sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the 
second, she wavered, hesitated, changed the tense — it was. She did 
not quite know herself what the change meant. 

Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. ” It was 
— everything you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my 
dear. You will not be disloyal to the past. But to Constance, 

who does not know it, who knows something else — Poor Coni 

I understand. But she will have to pay for her experience, like all 
the rest.” 

Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happi- 
ness. She did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not 

because of the relief of tears, but because she did not know how 

else to express the sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got 
into her mind. Was it that already a wrong note had sounded be- 
tween herself and this unknown mother, whom it had been a rapt- 
ure to see and touch? Or was it only that she was tired? Lady 
Markham saw the condition into which her nerves and temper were 
strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “ My dear,” 
she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do 
just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would 
send Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer 
to be left alone and quiet.” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Frances with fervor; then she added hastily; 

‘ ‘ If you do not think me disagreeable to say so. ’ ’ 

“I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my 
dear,” said her mother, kissing her — but with a sigh. This sigh 
Frances echoed in a burst of tears when the door closed and she 
found herself alone — alone, quite alone, more so than she had ever 
been in her life, she whispered to herself, in the shock of the un- 
reasonable and altogether fantastic disappointment which had fol- 
lowed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely it meant nothing at all 
but the reaction from that too highly raised level of feeling. 

“ No; I am not disappointed,” Lady Markham was saying down- 
stairs. She was standing before the genial blaze of the fire, look- 
ing into it with her head bent and a serious expression on her face. 
“ Perhaps I was too much delighted for a moment; and she too, 
poor child, now that she has looked at me a second time, she is a 
little, just a little disappointed in me. That’s rather hard for a 
mother, you know; or I suppose you don’t know.” 

“ I never was a mother,” said Markham. “I should think it’s 
very natural. The little thing has been forming the most romantic 
ideas. If you had been an angel from heaven — ” 

“ Which! am not,” she said with a smile, still looking into the 
fire. 

“ Heaven be praised,” said Markham. “ In that case, you would 
not have suited me, which you do, mammy, you know, down to the 
ground.” 

She gave a half-glance at him, a half-smile, but did not disturb 
the chain of her reflections. “ That’s something, Markham,” she 
said. 


138 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAII^ST ITSELF, 


“ Yes; it’s something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don’t go 
too fast with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little pa- 
tience, and let her settle down her own w^ay.” 

“ I don’t feel sure that she has not got her father’s temper; I saw 
something like it in her eyes.” 

‘‘ That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing 
of her father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is every- 
thing about her. My dear mother. Con’s like Waring, if you like. 
This one is of our side of the house.” 

” Do you really think so?” Lady Markham looked up now and 
laid her haiyf affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. ” But, 
my dear boy, you are as like the Markhams as you can look. On 
my side of the house, there is nobody at all, unless, as you say — ” 

” Frances,” said the little man. ” I told you — the best of the lot. 
I took to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don’t go 
too fast with her, mother. She has her own notions. She is as 
stanch as a little — Turk,” said Markham, using the first word that 
offered. When he met his mother’s eye, he retired a little, with the 
air of a man who does not mean to be questioned; which naturally 
stimulated curiosity in her mind. 

” How have you found out that she is stanch, Markham?” 

“Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,” he answered carelessly. “And 
she will stick to her father through thick and thin, so mind what 
you say. ’ ’ 

Then Lady Markham began to bemoan herself a little gently, be- 
fore the fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs. 

“Was ever woman in such a position,” she said, “ to be making 
acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter, 
and to have to pick my w'ords and to be careful what I say?” 

“Well, mammy,” said Markham, “ it might have -been worse. 
Let us make the best of it. He has always kept his word, which 
is something, and has never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice 
thing for Con to have him to go to, to find out how dull it is, and 
know her own mind. And now we’ve got the other one too.” 

Lady Markliam still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put 
her handkerchief to her eyes. “ For all that, it is very hard, both 
on her and me,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Lady Markham’s storv was one which was very well known to 
Society — to which everything is known — though it had remained so 
long a secret, and was still a mystery to one of her children. War- 
ing had been able to lose himself in distance, and keep his position 
concealed from every one; but it was clear that his wife could not 
do so, remaining as she did in the world, w'hich was fully ac- 
quainted with her, and which required an explanation of everything 
that happened. Perhaps it is more essential to a woman than to a 
man that her position should be fully explained, though it is one of 
the drawbacks of an established place and sphere, which is seldom 
spoken of, yet is verjr real, and one of the greatest embarrassments 
of life. So long as existence is without complications, this matters 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


139 

little; but when these arise, those difficulties which so often distract 
the career of a family, the inevitable explanations that have to be 
made to the little interested ring of spectators, is often the worst 
part of domestic trouble. Waring, whose temperament was what is 
called sensitive — that is, impatient, self-willed, and unenduring — 
would not submit to such a necessity. But a woman can not fly; 
she must stand in her place, if she has any regard for that place, 
and for the reputation which it is common to say is more delicate 
and easily injured than is that of a man — and make her excuse to 
the world. Perhaps, as, sooner or later, excuses and explanations 
must be afforded, it is the wiser plan to get over them publicly and 
at once; for even Waring, as has been seen, though he escaped, and 
had a dozen years of tranquillity, had at the last to submit himself 
to the questions of Mr. Durant. All that was over for these dozen 
years with Lady Markham. Everybody knew exactly what her 
position was. Scandal had never breathed upon her, either at the 
moment of the separation or afterward It had been a foolish, ro- 
mantic love-marriage between a woman of Society, and a man who 
was half-rustic, half-scholar. They had found after a time that 
they could not endure each other — as anybody with a head on his 
shoulders could have told them from the beginning, Society said. 
And then he had taken the really sensible though wild and roman- 
tic step of banishing himself and leaving her free. There were 
some who had supposed this a piece of bizarre generosity, like the 
man, and some who thought it only a natural return to the kind of 
life that suited him best. 

Lady Markham had, of course, been censured for this, her second 
marriage; and equally, of course, was censured for this breach of 
it; for the separation, which, indeed, was none of her doing; for 
retaining her own place when her husband left her; and, in short, 
for every step she had taken in the matter from first to last. ‘ But 
that was twelve years ago, which is a long time in all circum- 
stances, and which counts for about a century in Society; and no- 
body thought of blaming her any longer, or of remarking at all 
upon the matter. The present lords and ladies of fashionable life 
had always known her as she was, and there was no further ques- 
tion about her history. When, in the previous season. Miss Waring 
had made her debut in Society and achieved the success which had 
been so remarkable, there was indeed a little languid question as to 
who was her father among those who remembered that Waring was 
not the name of the Markham family; but this was not interesting 
enough to cause any excitement. And Frances, still thrilling with 
the discovery of the other life, of which she had never suspected the 
existence, and ignorant even now of everything except the mere 
fact of it, suddenly found herself embraced and swallowed up in a 
perfectly understood and arranged routine in which there was no 
mystery at all. 

“ The first thing you must do is to make acquaintance with your 
relations,” said Lady Markham next morning at breakfast. ” Fort- 
unately, we have this quiet time before Easter to get over all these 
preliminaries. Your aunt Cavendish will expect to see you at once.” 

Frances was greatly disturbed by this new discovery. She gave a 
covert glance at Markham, who, though it was not his habit to 


140 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


appear so early, had actually produced himself at breakfast to see 
how the little one was getting on. Markham looked back again, 
elevating his eyebrows, and not understanding at first what the 
question meant. 

“ And there are all the cousins,” said the mother, with that plaint- 
ive tone in her voice. “ My dear, I hope you are not in the way of 
forming friendships, for there are so many of them? I think the 
best thing will be to get over all these duty introductions at once. I 
must ask the Cavendishes — don’t you think, Markham? — to dinner, 
and perhaps the Peytons — quite a family party. ’ ’ 

“Certainly, by all means,” said Markham; “but first of all, 
don’t you think she wants to be dressed?” 

Lady Markham looked at Frances critically from her smooth little 
head to her neat little shoes. The girl was standing by the fire, with 
her head reclined against the mantel-piece of carved oak, which, as 
a “ reproduction, ” was very much thought of in Eaton Square. 
Frances felt that the blush with which slie met her mother’s look 
must be seen, though she turned her head away, through the criti- 
cised clothes. 

“ Her dress is very simple; but there is nothing in bad taste. 
Don’t you think I might take her anywhere as she is? I did not 
notice her hat,” said Lady Markham with gravity; “ but if that is 
right — Simplicity is quite the right thing at eighteen — ” 

“ And in Lent,” said Markham. 

“ It is quite true; in Lent, it is better than the right thing — it is 
the best thing. My dear, you must have had a very good maid. 
Foreign women have certainly better taste than the class we get 
our servants from. What a pity you did not bring her with you. 
One can always find room for a clever maid. ’ ’ 

“ 1* don’t believe she had any maid; it is all out of her own little 
head,” said Markham. “ I told you not to let yourself be taken in. 
She has a deal in her, that little tiling. ’ ’ 

Lady Markham smiled, and gave Frances a kiss, infolding her 
once more in that soft atmosphere which had been such a revelation 
to her last night. “ I am sure she is a dear little girl, and is going 
to be a great comfort to me. You still want to write your letters 
this morning, my love, which you must do before lunch. And after 
lunch, we will go and see your aunt. You know that is a matter 
of — what shall we call it, Markham? conscience: with me.” 

“ Pride,” Markliam said, coming and standing by them in front 
of the fire. 

“ Perhaps a little,” she answered with a smile; “ but conscience 
too. I would not have her say that I had kept the child from her 
for a single day. ’ ’ 

“ That is how conscience speaks. Fan,” said Markham. “ You 
will know next time you hear it. And after the Cavendishes?” 

“Well — of course, there must be a hundred things the child 
wants. We must look at your evening dresses together, darling. 
Tell Josephine to lay them out and let me see them. We are going 
to have some people at the Priory for Easter; and when we come 
back, there will be no time. Yes, I think on our way home from 
Portland Place, we must just look into — a shop or two.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 141 

Now my mind is relieved,” Markham said. “I thought you 
were going to change the course of nature, Fan.” 

“The child is quite bewildered by your nonsense, Markham, ” 
the mother said. 

And this was quite true. Frances had never been on such terms 
with her father as would have entitled her to venture to laugh at 
him. She was confused with this new phase, as well as with her 
many other discoveries; and it appeared to her that Markham 
looked just as old as his mother. Lady Markham was fresh and 
fair, her complexion as clear as a girl’s, and her hair still brown and 
glossy. If art in any way added to this perfection, Frances had no 
suspicion of such a possibility. And when she looked from her 
mother’s round and soft contour to the wrinkles of Markham, and 
his no-color and indefinite age, and heard him address her with that 
half-caressing, half-bantering equality, the girl’s mind grew more 
and more hopelessly confused. She withdrew, as was expected of 
her, to write her letters, though without knowing how to fulfill that 
duty. She could write (of course) to her father. It was of course, 
and so was what she told him. “ We arrived about six o’clock. I 
was dreadfully confused with the noise and the crowds of people. 
Mamma was very kind. She bids me send you her love. The 
house is very fine, and full of furniture, and fires in all the rooms; 
but one wants that, for it is much colder here. We are going out 
after luncheon to call on my aunt Cavendish. I wish very much I 
knew who she was, or who my other relations are; but I suppose I 
shall find out in time.” This was the scope of Frances’ letter. And 
she did not feel warranted, somehow, in writing to Constance. She 
knew so little of Constance: and was she not in some respects a 
supplanter, taking Constance’s place? When she had finished her 
short letter to her father, which was all fact, with very few reflec- 
tions, Frances paused and looked round her, and felt no further in- 
spiration. Should she write to Mariuccia? But that would require 
time — there was so much to be said to Mariuccia. Facts were not 
what she would want — at least, it would have to be facts of a differ- 
ent kind; and Frances felt that daylight and all the arrangements 
of the new life, the necessity to be ready for luncheon and to go 
out after, were not conditions under which she could begin to pour 
out her heart to her old nurse, the attendant of her childhood. She 
must put off till the evening, when she should be alone and undis- 
turbed, with time and leisure to collect all her thoughts and first 
impressions. She put down her pen, which was not, indeed, an 
instrument she was much accustomed to wield, and began to think 
instead; but all her thinking would not tell her who the relatives 
were to whom she was about to bepre.sented; and she reflected with 
horror that her ignorance must betray the secret which she had so 
carefully kept, and expose her father to further and further criti- 
cism. 

There was only one way of avoiding this danger, and that was 
through jVIarkham, who alone could help her, who was the only in- 
dividual in whom she could feel a confidence that he would give 
her what information he could, and understand why she asked. If 
she could but find Markham! she went down-stairs, timidly flitting 
along the great staircase through the great drawing-room, which 


142 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


was vacant, and found no trace of him. She lingered, peeping out 
from between the curtains of the windows upon tlie leafless gardens 
outside in the spring sunshine, the passing carriages which she could 
see through their bare bouglis, the broad pavement close at hand 
with so few passengers, the clatter now and then of a hansom, 
which amused her even in the midst of her perplexity, or the draw- 
ing up of a brougham at some neighboring door. After a minute’s 
distraction thus, she returned again to make further investigations 
from the drawing-room door, and peep over the balusters to watcli 
for her brother. At last she had the good luck to perceive him 
coming out of one of the rooms on the lower floor. She darted down 
as swift as a bird and touched him on the sleeve. He had his hat 
in his hand, as if preparing to go out. “ Oh,” she said, in a breath- 
less whisper, “ I want to speak to you; I want to ask you some- 
thing,” holding up her hand with a warning hush. 

“What is it?” returned Markham, chiefly with his eyebrows, 
with a comic affectation of silence and secrecy which tempted her 
to laugh in spite of herself. Then he nodded his head, took her 
hand in his, and led her upstairs to the drawing-room again. “ What 
is it 3^ou want to ask me? Is it a state secret? The palace is full 
of spies, and the walls of ears, ” said Markham with mock solem- 
nity, ” and I may risk my head by following you. Fair conspirator, 
what do you want to ask?” 

” Oh, Markham, don’t laugh at me — it is serious. Please, who is 
my aunt Cavendish?” 

‘‘You little Spartan!” he said; “ you are a plucky little girl. Fan. 
You won’t betray the daddy, come what may. You are quite right, 
my dear; but he ought to have told you. I don’t approve of him, 
though I approve of j^ou. ’ ’ 

“ Papa has a right to do as he pleases,” said Frances, steadily; 
“ that is not what I asked you, please.” 

lie stood and smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder. “ I won- 
der if you will stand by me like that, when you hear me get my due? 
Who is your aunt Cavendish? She is your father’s sister. Fan; I 
think the only one who is left.” 

” Papa’s sister! 1 thought it must be — on the other side.” 

“My mother,” said Markliam, “has few relations; which is a 
misfortune that I bear with equanimity. Mrs. Cavendish married a 
lawyer a great many j’-ears ago, Fan, when he was poor; and now 
he is very rich, and they will make him a judge one of these 5ays.’^ 

“A judge,” said Frances. “Then he must be very good and 
wise. And my aunt — ” 

“ My dear, the wife’s qualities are not as yet taken into account. 
She is very good, I don’t doubt; but they don’t mean to raise her 
to the Bench. You must remember when you go there, Fan, that 
they are the other side.'" 

“ What do you mean by the other side?” inquired Frances anx- 
iously, fixing her eyes upon the kind, queer, insignificant jDerson- 
age, who yet was so important in this house. 

Markham gave forth that little chuckle of a laugh which was hi» 
special note of merriment. “You will soon find it out for your- 
self,” he replied; “ but the dear old mammy can hold her own. Is 
that all? for I’m running off; I have an engagement.” 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


143 


** Oh, not all — not half. I want you to tell me — I want to know 
'—I — I don’t know where to begin,” said Frances, with her hand on 
the sleeve of his coat. 

“ Nor I,” he retorted with a laugh. “ Let me go now; we’ll find 
an opportunity. Keep your eyes, or rather your ears, open; but 
don’t take all you hear for gospel. Good-bye till to-night. I’m 
coming here to-night.” 

” Don’t you live here?” said Frances, accompanying him to the 
door. 

” Not such a fool, thank you,” replied Markliam, stopping her 
gently, and closing the door of the room with care after him as he 
went away. 

Frances was much discouraged by finding nothing but that closed 
door in front of her where she had been gazing into his ugly but 
expressive face. It made a sort of dead stop, an emphatic punctua- 
tion, marking the end. Why should he say he was not such a fool 
as to live at home with his mother? Why should he be so mc^ and 
vet so odd ? Why had Constance warned her not to put herself in 
Markham’s hands? All this confused the mind of Frances when- 
ever she began to think. And she did not know what to do with 
herself. She stole to the window and watched through the white 
curtains, and saw him go away in the hansom which stood waiting 
at the door. She felt a vacancy in the house after his departure, the 
loss of a support, an additional silence and sense of solitude; even 
something like a panic took possession of her soul. The impulse 
was to rush upstairs again and shut herself up in her room. She 
had never yet been alone with her mother except for a moment. 
She dreaded the (quite unnecessary, to her thinking) meal which 
was coming, at which she must sit down opposite to Lady Mark- 
ham, with that solemn old gentleman, dressed like Mr. Durant, and 
that gorgeous theatricil figure of a footman, serving the two ladies. 
Ah, how different from Domenico — poor Domenico, who had called 
her Carina from her childhood, and who wept over,her hand as he 
kissed it, when she was coming away. Oh, when should she see 
these faithful friends again? 

“I want you to be quite at your ease with your aunt Caven- 
dish, ’ ’ said Lady Markham at luncheon, when the servants had left 
the room. ” She will naturally want to know all about j^our father 
and your way of living. We have not talked very much on that 
subject, my dear, because, for one thing, w e have not had much 
time; and because — But she will want to know all the little de- 
tails. And, my darling, I want just to tell you, to warn you. Poor 
-43ap©liuais not very fond of me. Perhaps it is natural. She may 
say things to you about your mother — ’ ’ 

“Oh, no, mamma,” said Frances, looking up in her mother’s 
face. 

” You don’t know, my dear. Some people have a great deal of 
prejudice. Your aunt Garolffie, as is quite natural, takes a different 
view. I wonder if I can make you understand what I mean with- 
out using words which I don’t want to use?” 

“Yes,” said Frances; “you may trust me, mamma; I think I 
understand.” 

Lady IVIarkham rose and came to where her child sat, and kissed 


144 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


her tenderly. ‘ ‘ My dear, I think you will be a great comfort to 
me,” she said. “Constance was always hot-headed. She would 
not make friends, when I wished her to make friends. The Caven- 
dishes are very rich; they have no children, Frances. Naturally, I 
wish you to stand well with them. Besides that I would not allow 
her to suppose for a moment that I would keep jy^ou from her — that 
is what I call conscience, and Markham calls pride.” 

Frances did not know what to reply. She did not undei’stand 
what the wealth of the Cavendishes had to do with it; everything 
■else she could understand. She was very willing, nay, eager to see 
her father’s sister, yet very determined that no one should say a 
word to her to the detriment of her mother. So far as that went, in 
her own mind all was clear. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Mrs. Cavendish lived in one of the great houses in Portland 
Place which fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped 
in that stillness and decorum which is one of the chief signs of an 
entirely well-regulated house, also of a place in which life is lan- 
guid and youth does not exist. Frances followed her mother witk 
a beating heart through the long wide hall and large staircase, over 
soft carpets, on which their feet made no sound. She thought they 
were stealing in like ghosts to some silent place in which mystery 
of one kind or other must attend them; but the room they were- 
ushered into was onl^ a very large, very still drawing-room, in 
painfully good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, wmich made 
a little sound and flicker that preserved it from utter death. The 
blinds were drawn half over the windows; the long curtains hung 
down in dark folds. There were none of the quaintnesses, the mod- 
ern aestheticisms, the crowds of small picturesque articles of furni- 
ture impeding progress, in which Lady Markham delighted. The 
furniture was all solid, durable — what upholsterers call very hand- 
some — huge mirrors over the mantel-pieces, a few large portraits in 
chalk on the walls, solemn ornaments on the table; a large and brill- 
iantly painted china flower- pot inclosing a large plant of the palm, 
kind, dark green and solemn, like everything else, holding tlio 
place of honor. It was very warm and comfortable, full of low 
easy-chairs and sofas, but at the same time very severe and for- 
bidding, like a place into which the common occupations of life 
were never brought. 

“ She never sits here,” said Lady Markliam in a low tone. “ She. 
has a morning-room that is cozy enough. She comes up here after 
dinner, when Mr. Cavendish takes a nap before conning his briefs 
for the ensuing day; and he comes up at ten o’clock for ten min- 
utes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes to bed. That is about 
all the intercourse they have, and all the time the drawing-room is 
occupied, except when people come to call. That is why it has 
such a depressing look.” 

“Is she^ not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a 
silly question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it. 

“ Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


145 


not a question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why 
shouldn’t she be happy? She has everything she has ever wished 
for— plenty of money — for they are very rich — her husband quite 
distinguished in his sphere, and in the way of advancement. What 
could she want more? She is a lucky woman, as women go.” 

“ Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, 
looking round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought 
was, that it would probably be her duty to come here to make a 
little society for her aunt, and her heart sunk at the sight of this 
decent, nay, handsome gloom, with a sensation which Mariuccia’s 
kitchen at home, which only looked on the court, or the dimly 
lighted rooms of the villagers had never given her. The silence 
vfiis terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all at once the 
door opened, and Mrs. Cavendish came in, taking the young visitor 
entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so en- 
tirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in Kke a ghost to 
the ghosts alread}^ there. Frances, unaccustomed to English com- 
fort, was startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indica- 
tion of the footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned 
her to lay aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her 
father’s approach. Mrs. Cavendish coming in so softly seemed to 
arrest them in the midst of 1 heir talk about her, bringing a flush to 
Frances’ face. She was a tall w^oman, fair and pale, with cold 
gray eyes, and an air Avhich was like that of her rooms — the air of 
being unused, of being put against the wall like the handsome fur- 
niture. She came up stiffly to Lady Markham, who went to meet 
her with effusion, holding out both hands. 

” I am so glad to see you, Charlotte. I feared you might be out, 
as it was such a beautiful day.” 

“Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me cold, looking out. I 
am not very energetic, you know — not like you. Have I seen this 
young lady before?” 

“You have not seen her for a long time, not since she was a 
child; nor I either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. 
Chai’lotte, I told you I expected — ” 

“My brother’s child!” Mrs. Cavendish said, fixing her eyes 
upon the girl, who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not 
open her arms, as Frances expected. She inspected her carefully 
and coldly, and ended by saying, “But she is like you, ’ with a 
certain tone of reproach. 

“ That is not my fault ” said Lady Markham, almost sharply; 
and then she added: “ For the matter of that, they are both your 
brother’s children — though, unfortunately, mine too.” 

“You know my opinion on that matter, ” said Mrs. Cavendish: 
and then, and not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stoop 
ing, kissed her on the cheek. “ Your father writes very seldom, 
and I have never heard a word from you. All the same, I have al- 
ways taken an interest in you. It must be very sad for you, after 
the life to which you have been accustomed, to be suddenly sent 
here without any will of your owm.” 

“Oh, no,” said Frances. “I was very glad to come, to see - 
mamma.” 

“ That’s the proper thing to say, of course,” the other said with 


146 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


a cold smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her 
father to arrest Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed 
time to make an answer, even had she possessed confidence enough 
to do so, for her aunt went on, without looking at her again: “ I 
suppose you have heard from Constance? It must be difficult for 
her too, to reconcile herself with the different kind of life. My 
brother’s quiet ways are not likely to suit a young lady about 
town.” 

Frances will be able to tell you all about it,” said Lady Mark- 
ham, who kept her temper with astonishing self-control. ” She 
only arrived last night. I would not delay a moment in bringing 
her to you. Of course, you will like to hear. Marldiam, who went 
to fetch his sister, is of opinion that on the whole the change will 
do Constance good.” 

“ I don’t at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my 
brother would do any one good — who is worthy of it; but of course 
it will be a great change for her. And this child will be kept just 
long enough to be infected with world^ ways, and then sent back 
to him spoiled for his life. I suppose. Lady Markliam, that is what 
you intend?” 

“You are so determined to think badly of me,” said Lady Mark- 
ham, “ that it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might re- 
mind you that Con’s going off was a gi*eater surprise to me than to 
any one. You know what were my views for her?” 

“Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint 
me with your plans,” Mrs. Cavendish said. 

“ It is foolish,^ perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward^ only 
near relation — ’ ’* 

“ Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you for your considera- 
tion, ’ ’ the other cried quickly. ‘ ‘ Constance was never influenced 
by me; though I don’t wonder that her soul revolted at such a mar--' 
riage as you had prepared for her.” 

“Why?” cried Lady Markham quickly, with an astonished 
glance. Then she added with a smile : “I am afraid you will see 
nothing but hann in any plan of mine. Unfortunately Con did not 
like the gentleman whom I approved. I should not have put any 
force upon her. One can’t nowadays, if one wished to. It is con- 
;trary, as she says herself, to the spirit of the times. But if you will 
allow me to say so, Charlotte, Con is too like her father to bear 
• anything, to put up with anything that — ” 

“ Thank Heaven,” cried Mrs. Cavendish. “ She is indeed a little 
like her dear father, notwithstanding a training so different. And 
this one, I suppose — this one you find like you?” 

“lam happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,” said 
Lady Markham, taking Frances’ hand in her own. “ But Edward 
has brought her up, Charlotte; that should be a passport to your 
affections at least.” 

Upon this, Ml'S. Cavendish came dowm as from a pedestal, and 
addressed herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this 
strange dialogue had gone. “lam afraid, my dear, you will think 
me very hard and disagreeable,” she said. “ I will not tell you 
why, though I think I could make out a case. How is your dear 
father? He writes seldomer and seJdomer — sometimes not even at 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


147 

Cliristmas; and I am afraid you have little sense of family duties, 
wliicli is a pity at your age.” 

Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she 
was confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. 
“Papa,” she said, “is very well. I have heard him say that he 
could not write letters— our life was so quiet: there was nothing to 
say.” 

“Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those 
who care more about the outside than the heart. But he might have 
known that anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is 
just your quiet life that I like to hear about. Society has little at- 
raction for me. I suppose you are half an Italian, are you? and 
know nothing about English life?” 

“ She looks nothing but English,” said Lady Markham in a sort 
of parenthesis. 

“ The only people I know, are English,” said Frances. “ Papa 
is not fond of society. We see the Gaunts and the Durants, but 
nobody else. I have always tried to be like my own country-people, 
as well as I could.” 

“ And with great success, my dear,” said her mother with a smil- 
ing look. 

Mrs. Cavendish said nothing, but looked at her with silent criti- 
cism. Then she turned to Lady Markham. “Naturally,” she 
said, “ I should like to make acquaintance with my niece, and hear 
all the details about my dear brother; but that can’t be done in a 
morning call. Will you leave her with me for the day? Or may I 
have her to-morrow, or the day after? Any time will suit me.” 

“ She only arrived last night, Charlotte. I suppose even you 
will allow that the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances 
shall spend with you, if that suits you?” 

“Thursday, the third day,” said Mrs. Cavendish, ostentatiously 
counting on her fingers — “during which interval you will have 
full time — Oh, yes, Thursday will suit me. The mother of course 
conventionally has, as you say, the first right.” 

“ Conventionally and naturally too,” Lady Markham replied; 
and then there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. 
Frances, who felt her innocent self to be something like the bone 
of contention over which these two ladies were wrangling, sat with 
downcast eyes confused and indignant, not knowing what to do or 
say. The mistress of the house did nothing to dissipate the em- 
barrassment of the moment; she seemed to have no wish to set her 
visitors at their ease, and the pause, during which the ticking of 
the clock on the mantel-piece and the occasional fall of ashes from 
the fire came in as a sort of chorus or symphony, loud and distinct 
to fill up the interval, was half painful, half ludicrous. It seemed 
to the quick ears of the girl thus suddenly introduced into the 
arena of domestic conflict, that there was a certain irony in this 
inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of life. 

At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence. Lady 
Markham rose and spread her wings — or at least shook out her 
silken draperies, which comes to the same thing. “ As that is set- 
tled, we need not detain you any longer,” she said. 

• Mrs. Cavendish rose too, slowly. “I can not expect, ” she replied. 


148 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


** that you will give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not 
so much occupied. I will expect you, Frances, before one o’clock 
on Thursday. I lunch at one; and then if there is anything you 
want to see or do, I shall be glad to take you wherever you like. I 
suppose I may keep her to dinner? Mr. Cavendish will like to 
make acquaintance with his niece.” 

“ Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,” said Lady Mark- 
ham with a smile. “ I am not a mediaeval parent, as poor Con 
says.” 

“ Yet it was on that ground that Constance abandoned you and 
ran away to her father, ’ ’ quoth the implacable antagonist. 

Lady Markham, calm as she was, grew red to her hair. “ I don’t 
think Constance has abandoned me,” she cried hastily; ” and if she 
has, the fault is — But there is no discussion possible between peo- 
ple so hopelessly biased as you and I, ’ ’ she added, recovering her 
composure. “ Mr. Cavendish is well, I hope?” 

” Very well. Good-morning, since you will go,” said the mis- 
tress of the house. She dropped another cold kiss upon Frances’ 
cheek. It seemed to the girl, indeed, who was angry and horrified, 
that it was her aunt’s nose, which was a long one and very chilly, 
which touched her. She made no response to this nasal salutation. 
She felt, indeed, that to give a slap to that other cheek would be 
much more expressive of her sentiments than a kiss, and followed 
her mother down-stairs hot with resentment. Lady Markham, too, 
was moved. When she got into her brougham, she leaned back in 
her corner and put her handkerchief lightly to the corner of each 
eye. Then she laughed, and put her hand upon Frances’ arm. 

“You are not to think I am grieving,” she said; “it is only 
rage. Did you ever know such a — ? But, my dear, we must recol- 
lect that it is natural — that she is on the other side.’' 

“Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?” cried Frances. 
“ Then, mamma, I shall hate England, where I once thought every 
tiling was good.” 

“Everything is not good anywhere, my love; and Society, I 
fear, above all, is far from being perfect — not that your poor dear 
aunt Charlotte can be said to be in Society,” Lady Markham add- 
ed, recovering her spirits. “ I don’t think they see anybody but a 
lew lawyers like themselves.” 

“ But, mamma, why do you go to see her? Why do you endure 
yt? You promised forme, or I should never go back, neither on 
Thursday nor any other time.” 

“ Oh, for goodness’ sake, Frances, my dear? I hope you have 
not got those headstrong Waring waj^s. Because she hates me, that 
Is no reason why she should hate you. Even Con saw as much as 
that. You are of her own blood, and her near relation, and I never 
heard that he took very much to any of the young people on his 
side. And they are very rich. A man like that, at the head of his 
profession, must be coining money. It would be wicked of me, for 
any little tempers of mine, to risk what might be a fortune for my 
children. And you know I have very little more than my jointure, 
and your father is not rich. ’ ’ 

This exposition of motives was like another language to Frances. 
She gazed at her mother’s soft face, so full of sweetness and kind- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


149 


ness, with a sense that she was under the sway of motives and in- 
fluences which had been left out in her own simple education. Was 
it supreme and self-denying generosity, or was it — something else? 
The girl^was too inexperienced, too ignorant to tell. But the con- 
trast between Lady Markham’s wonderful temper and forbearance 
and the harsh and ungenerous tone of her aunt, moved her heart 
out of the region of reason. “ If you put up with all that for us, I 
can not see any reason why we should put up with it for you!” she 
cried indignantly. “ She can not have any right to speak to my 
mother so — and before me.” 

‘ ‘ Ah, my darling, that is just the sweetness of it to her. If we 
were alone, I should not mind; she might say what she liked. It is 
because of you that she can make me feel — a little. But you must 
take no notice; you must leave me to tight my own battles.” 

” Why?” Frances flung up her young head, till she looked about 
a foot taller than her mother, ” I will never endure it, mamma; 
you may say what you like. What is her fortune to me?” 

” My love!” she exclaimed; “ why, you little savage, her fortune 
is everything to you! It may make all the difference, ” Then she 
laughed rather tremulously, and leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon 
her stranger-child’s half-reluctant cheek. “It is very, very sweet 
of you to make a stand for your mother, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ and when you 
know so little of me. The horrid people in society would say that 
was the reason; but I think you would defend your mother any- 
how, my Frances, my child that I have always missed! But look 
here, dear. Yuu must not do it. I am old enough to take care of 
myself. And your poor aunt Cavendish is not so bad as you think. 
She believes she has reason for it. She is very fond of your father, 
and she has not seen him for a dozen years; and there is no telling 
whether she may ever see him again; and she thinks it is my fault. 
So you must not take up arms on my behalf till you know better. 
And it would be so much to your advantage if she should take a 
fancy to you, my dear. Do you think I could ever reconcile my- 
self, for any amour propre of mine, to stand in my child’s way?” 

Once more Frances was unable to make any reply. All the lines 
of sentiment and sense to which "she had been accustomed seemed 
to be getting blurred out. Where she had come from, a family 
stood together, shoulder by shoulder. They defended each other, 
and even revenged each other; and though the law might disap- 
prove, public opinion stood by them. A child who looked on care- 
less while its parents were assailed, would have been to Mariuccia 
an odious monster. Her father’s opinions on such a subject, 
Frances had never known; but as for fortune, he would have 
smiled that disdainful smile of his at the suggestion that she should 
pay court to any one because he was rich. Wealth meant having 
few wants, she had heard him say a thousand times. It might even 
have been supposed from his conversation that he scorned rich peo- 
ple for being rich, which, of course, was an exaggeration. But he 
could never, never have wished her to endeavor to please an un- 
kind, disagreeable person because of her money. That was impos- 
sible. So that she made no repl^, and scarcely even, in her con- 
fusion, responded to the caress with which her mother thanked her 
for the partisanship, which it appeared was so out of place. 


150 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Frances had not succeeded in resolving this question in her mind 
when Thursday came. The two intervening days had been very 
quiet. She had gone with her mother to several shops, and had 
stood by almost passive and much astonished while a multitude of 
little luxuries which she had never been sufficiently enlightened 
even to wish for, were bought for her. She was so little accus- 
tomed to lavish expenditure that it was almost with a sense of 
wrong-doing that she contemplated all these costly trifles, which 
were for the use not of some typical fine lady, but of herself, 
Frances, who had never thought it possible she could ever be classed 
under that title. To Lady Markham these delicacies w'ere evidently 
necessaries of life. And then it was for the first time that Frances 
learned what an evening dress meant — not only the garment itself, 
but the shoes, the stockings, the gloves, the ribbons, the fan, a 
hundred little accessories which she had never so much as thought 
of. When you have nothing but a set of coral or amber beads to 
w^ear with your white frock it is astonishing how much that matter 
is simplified. Lady Markham opened her jew^el-boxes to provide 
for the same endless roll of necessities. “ This will go wdtli the 
white dress, and this with the pin,” she said, thus revealing to 
Frances another delicacy of accord unsuspected by tter simplicity. 

“ But, mamma, you are giving me so many things!” 

” Not your share yet,” said Lady Markham. And she added. 
” But don’t say anything of this to your aunt Cavendish. She will 
probably give you something out of her hoards, if she thinks you 
are not provided, ’ ’ 

This speech checked the pleasure and gratitude of Frances. She 
stopped with a little gasp in her eager thanks. She wanted nothing 
from her aunt Cavendish, she said to herself with indignation, nor 
from her mother either. If they w'ould but let her keep her igno- 
rance, her pleasure in any simple gift, and not represent her, even to 
herself, as a little schemer, trying how much she could get. Frances 
cried rather than smiled over her pearls and the set of old gold or- 
naments, which but for that little speech would have made her 
happy. The suggestion put gall into everything, and made the timid 
question in her mind as to Lady Markham’s generous forbearance 
with her sister-in-law, more difficult than ever. Why did she bear 
it? She ought not to have borne it — not for a day. 

On the Wednesday evening before the visit to Portland Place, to 
which she looked with so much alarm, two gentlemen came to din- 
ner at the invitation of Markham. The idea of tw^o gentlemen to 
dinner produced no exciting effect upon Frances so as to withdraw 
her mind from the trial that was coming. Gentlemen were the only 
portion of the creation with wffiich she was more or less acquainted. 
Even in the old Palazzo, a guest of this description had been occa- 
sionally received, and had sat discussing some point of antiquarian 
lore or something about the old books at Colla with he? father 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


151 

without taking any notice, beyond what civility demanded, of the 
little girl who sat at the head of the table. She did not doubt it 
would be the same thing to-night; and though Markham was always 
nice, never leaving her out, never letting the conversation drop alto- 
gether into that stream of personality or allusion which makes soci- 
ety so intolerable to a stranger, she yet prepared for the evening 
with the feeling that dullness awaitea her, and not pleasure. One 
of the guests, however, was of a kind which Frances did not expect. 
He was young, very young in appearance, rather small and deli- 
cate, but at the same time refined, with a look of gentle melancholy 
upon a countenance which was almost beautiful, with child-like 
limpid eyes, and features of extreme delicacy and purity. This was 
something quite unlike the elderly antiquarians, who talked so 
glibly to her fathei about Roman remains or Etruscan art. He sat 
between Lady Markham and herself, and spoke in gentle tones, 
with a soft affectionate manner, to her mother, who replied with the 
kindness, easy affectionateness, which were habitual to her. To see 
the sweet looks which this young gentleman received, and to hear 
the tender questions about his health and his occupations which 
Lady Markham put to him, awoke in the mind of Frances another 
doubt of the same character as those from which she had not been 
able to get free. Was this sympathetic tone, this air of tender in- 
terest, put on at will for the benefit of everybody with whom Lady 
Markham spoke? Frances hated herself for the instinctive question 
which rose in her, and for the suspicions which crept into her mind 
on every side ^nd undermined all her pleasure. The other stranger 
opposite to her was old — to her youthful eyes — and called forth no 
interest at all. But the gentleness and melancholy, the low voice, 
the delicate features, something plaintive and appealing about the 
youth by her side, attracted her interest in spite of herself. He said 
little to her, but from time to time she caught him looking at her 
with a sort of questioning glance. When the ladies left the table, 
and Frances and her mother were alone in the drawing-room. Lady 
Markham, who had said nothing for some minutes, suddenly turned 
and asked: “ What did you think of him, Frances?” as if it were 
the most natural question in the world. 

” Of whom?” said Frances in her astonishment. 

” Of Claude, my dear. Whom else? Sir Thomas could be of no 
particular interest either to you or me.” 

” I did not know their names, mamma; I scarcely heard them. 
Claude is the young gentleman who sat next to you?” 

” And to you also, Frances. But not only that. He is the man 
of whom, I suppose, Constance has told you — to avoid whom, she 
left home, and ran away from me. Oh, the words come quite ap- 
propriate, though I could not bear them from the mouth of Char- 
lotte Cavendish. She abandoned me, and threw herself upon your 
father’s protection, because of — ” 

Frances had listened with a sort of consternation. When her 
mother paused for breath she filled up the interval : ‘ ‘ That little, 
gentle, small, young man!” 

Lady Markham looked for a moment as if she would angry; 
then she took a better way, and laughed. “He is little and 
young, ” she said; “ but neither so young nor even so small as you 


152 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


think. He is most wonderfully, portentously rich, my dear; and 
he is very nice and good and intelligent and generous. You must 
not take up a prejudice against him because he is not an athlete or 
a giant. There are plenty of athletes in society, my love, but very, 
very few with a hundred thousand a year.” 

“ It is so sli-ange to me to hear about money,” said Frances. “ I 
hope you will pardon me, mamma. I don’t understand. I thought 
he was perhaps some one who was delicate, whose mother, perhaps, 
you knew, whom you wanted to be kind to.” 

“ Quite true,” said Lady Markham, patting her daughter’s cheek 
with a soft finger; ' ‘ and well judged; but something more besides, 
I thought, I allow, that it would be i^an excellent match for Con- 
stance; not only because he was rich, but also because he was rich. 
Do you see the difference?” 

“I — suppose so,” Frances said; but there was not any warmth 
in the admission. ‘‘I thought the right way,” she added after a 
moment, with a blush that stole over her from head to foot, ” was 
that people fell in love with each other. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ So it is, ” said her mother, smiling upon her. “But it often 
happens, you know, that they fall in love respectively with the 
wrong people.” 

“ It is dreadful to me to talk to ^ou, who know so much better,” 
cried Frances. “ All that 7 know is from stories. But I thought 
that even a wrong person, whom you chose yourself, was better 
than — ’ ’ 

“ The right person chosen by your mother? These are awful 
doctrines, Frances. You are a little revolutionary. Who taught 
you such terrible things?” Lady Markliam laughed as she spoke, 
and patted the girl’s cheek more affectionately than ever, and looked 
at her with unclouded smiles so that Frances took courage. “ But,’" 
the mother went on, ‘ ‘ there was no question of choice on my part. 
Constance has known Claude Ramsay all her life. She liked him, 
so far as I knew. I supposed she had accepted him. It was not 
formally announced, I am happy to say; but I made sure of it, and 
so did everybody else — including himself, poor fellow — when, sud- 
denly, without any warning, your sister disappeared. It was un- 
kind to me, Frances; oh, it was unkind to me!” 

And suddenly, while she wa« speaking, two tears appeared all at 
once in Lady Markham’s eyes. 

Frances was deeply touched by this sight. She ventured upon a 
caress, which as j'-et, except in timid return to those bestowed upon 
her, she had not been bold enough to do. “ I do not think Con- 
stance can have meant to be unkind,” she said. 

“ Few people mean to be unkind,” said this social philosopher, 
who knew so much more than Frances. “ Your aunt Cavendish 
does, and that makes her harmless, because one understands. Most 
of those who wound one, do it because it pleases themselves, with- 
out meaning anything — or caring anything — don’t you see? — 
whether it hurts or not.” 

This was too profound a saying to be understood at the first mo- 
ment; but Frances had no reply to make to it. She said only by 
way of apology: “ But Markham approved?” 

“My love,” said her mother, “Markham is an excellent son to 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


153 


me. He rarely wounds me himself — which is perhaps because he 
rarely does anything particular himself — but he is not always a safe 
guide. It makes me very happy to see that you take to him, though 
you must have heard many things against him; but he is not a safe 
guide. Hush; here are th'e men coming upstairs. If Claude talks 
to you, be as gentle with him as you can — and sympathetic, if you 
can,” she said quickly, rising from her chair, and moving in her 
noiseless easy way to the other side. Frances felt as if there was a 
meaning even in this movement, which left herself alone with a va- 
cant seat beside her; but she was confused as usual by all the nov- 
elty, and did not understand w^hat the meaning was. 

It was balked, however, if it had anything to do with Mr. Ram- 
say, for it was the other gentleman — the old gentleman, as Frances 
called him in her thoughts — who came up and took the vacant place. 
The old gentleman was a man about forty, with a few gray hairs 
among the brown, and a well-knit, manly figure, which showed very 
well between the delicate youth on one hand and Markham’s insig- 
nificance on the other. He was Sir Thomas, whom Lady Markham 
had declared to be of no particular interest to any one; but he evi- 
dently had sense enough to see the charm of simplicity and youth. 
The attention of Frances was sadly distracted by the movements of 
Claude, who fidgeted about from one table to another, looking at 
the books and the knickknacks upon them, and staring at the pictures 
on the walls, then finally came and stood by Markham’s side in 
front of the fire. He did well to contrast himself witli IVIarkham. 
He was taller, and the beauty of his countenance showed still more 
strikingly in contrast with Markham's odd little wdnkled face. 
Frances was distracted by the look which he kept fixed upon her- 
self, and which diverted her attention in spite of herself away from 
the talk of Sir Thomas, who was, however, very nice, and she felt 
sure, most interesting and instructi\’e, as became his advanced age, 
if only she could attend to what he was saying. But what with the 
lively talk which her mother carried on with Markham, and to 
•which she could not help listening all through the conversation of 
Sir Thomas, and the movements and glances of the melancholy 
young lover, she could not fix her mind upon the remarks that were 
addressed to her own ear. When Claude began to join languidly in 
the other talk it was more ditficult still. “You have got a new 
picture, Lady Markham,” she heard him say; and a sudden quick- 
ening of her attention and another wave of color and heat passing 
over her, arrested even Sir Thomas in the much more interesting 
observation which presumably he was about to make. He paused, 
as if he, too, wanted to hear Lady IMarkham’s reply. 

“ Shall we call it a picture? It is my iittle girl’s sketch from her 
window where she has been living — her present to her mother; and 
I think it is delightful, though in the circumstances I don’t pretend 
to be a judge.” 

Where she has been living! Frances grew redder and hotter in 
the flush of indignation that went over her. But she could not stand 
up and proclaim that it was from her home, her dear loggia, the 
place she loved best in the world, that the sketch was made. Al- 
ready the bonds of another life were upon her, and she dared not do 
that. And then there was a little chorus of praise which silenced 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


154 

her still more effectually. It was the group of palms which she had 
been so simply proud of, which — as she had never forgotten — had 
made her father say that she had grown up. Lady Markham had 
placed it on a small easel on her table; and Frances could not help 
feeling that this was less for any pleasure it gave her mother than 
in order to make a little exhibition of her own powers. It was, to 
be sure, in her own honor that this was done, and what so natural 
as that the mother should seek to do her daughter honor? but 
Frances was deeply sensitive, and painfully conscious of the strange 
tangled web of motives, which she had never in her life known any- 
thing about before. Had the little picture been hung in her moth- 
er’s bedroom, and seen by no eyes but her own, the girl would have 
found the most perfect pleasure in it; but here, exhibited as in a 
public gallery, examined by admiring eyes, calling forth all the in- 
cense of praise, it was with a mixture of shame and resentment that 
Frances found it out. It produced this result, however, that Sir 
Thomas rose, as in duty bound, to examine the performance of the 
daughter of the house; and presently young Ramsay, who had been 
watching his opportunity, took the place by her side. 

“ I have been waiting for this,” he said, with his air of pathos. 

” I have so many things to ask you, if you will let me. Miss Wa- 
ring.” 

‘‘ Surely,” Frances «aid. 

“ Your sketch is very sweet — it is full of feeling — there is no color 
like that of the Riviera. It is the Riviera, is it not?” 

” Oh, yes,” cried Frances, eager to seize the opportunity of mak- 
ing it apparent that it was not only where she had been living, as 
her mother said, ‘ ‘ it is from Bordighera, from our loggia, where 
I h^ve lived all my life.” 

“You will find no color and no vegetation like that, in London,” 
the young man said. 

To this Frances replied politely that London was full of much 
more wonderful things, as she had always heard; but felt somewhat 
disappointed, supposing that his communications to her were to be 
more interesting than this. 

“And the climate is so very different,” he continued. “lam 
very often sent out of England for the winter, though this year they 
have let me stay. I have been at Nice two seasons. I suppose you 
know Nice? It is a very pretty place; but the wind is just as cold 
sometimes as at home. You have to keep in the sun; and if you al- 
ways keep in the sun it is warm here.” 

“ But there is not always sun here,” said Frances. 

“ That is very true; that is a very clever remark. There is not . 
always sun here. San Remo was beginning to be known, when I 
was there; but I never heard of Bordighera as a place where people 
’went to stay. Some Italian wrote a book about it, I have heard — to 
push it, no doubt. Could you recommend it as a winter-place, Miss 
Waring? I suppose it is very dull, nothing going on?” 

“ Oh, nothing at all,” cried Frances, eagerly. “ All the tourists 
complain that there is nothing to do.” 

“I thought so,” he said; “a regular little Italian dead-alive 
place.” Then he added after a moment’s pause: “ But of course 
there are inducements which might make one put up with that if 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


155 

tlie air liappened to suit one. Are there villas to be had, can you 
tell me? They say, as a matter of fact, that 3"ou get more advan- 
tage of the air when you are in a dull place. ’ ’ 

“ There are hotels,” said Frances, more and more disappointed, 
though the beginning of this speech had given her a little hope. 

” Good’ hotels?” he said, with interest. ‘‘Sometimes they are 
really better than a place of one’s own, where the drainage is often 
had, and the exposure not all that could be desired. And then you 
get any amusement that may be going. Perhaps you will tell me 
the names of one or two? for if this east wind continues, my doc- 
tors may send me off even now.” 

Frances looked into his limpid eyes and expressive countenance 
with dismay. He must look, she felt sure, as if he were making 
the most touching confidences to her. His soft pathetic voice gave 
a /a MX- air of something sentimental to those questions, which even 
she could not persuade herself meant nothing. Was it to show that 
he was bent upon following Constance wherever she might go? That 
must be the true meaning, she supposed. He must be endeavoring 
by this mock anxiety to find out how much she knew of his real 
motives, and whether he might trust to her or not. But Frances 
resenled a little the unnecessary precaution. 

“ I don’t know anything about the hotels,” she said. “ I have 
never thought of the air. It is my home — that is all.” 

‘‘ You look so well that I am the more convinced it would be a 
good place for me,” said the young man. “ You look in such 
thorough good health, if you will allow me to say so. Some ladies 
don’t like to be told that; but I think it the most delightful thing in 
existence. Tell me, had you any trouble with drainage, when you 
went to settle there? And is the water good? and how long does 
the season last? I am afraid I am teasing you with my questions; 
but all these details are so important — and one is so pleased to 
hear of a new place.” 

“We live up in the old town,” said Frances, with a sudden flash 
of malice. “ I don’t know what drainage is, and neither does any 
one else there. We have our well in the court — our own well. And 
I don’t think there is any season. We go up among the mountains, 
when it gets too hot. ’ ’ 

“ Your well in the court!” said the sentimental Claude, with a 
look of a poet who has just been told that his dearest friend is killed 
by an accident, “ with everything percolating into it! That is ter- 
rible, indeed. But,” lie said, after a pause, an ethereal sense of 
consolation stealing over his fine features — ‘ ‘ there are exceptions, 
they say, to every rule; and sometimes, with fine health such as 
you have, bad sanitary conditions do not seem to tell — when there 
has been no stirring-up. I believe that is at the root of the whole 
question. People can go on, on the old sj'stem, so long as there is 
no stirring-up; but when once a beginning has been made, it must 
be complete, or it is fatal.” 

He said this with animation much greater than he had shown as 
yet; then dropping into his habitual pathos: “ If I come in for tea 
to-morrow — Lady Markham allows me to do it, when I can, when 
the weather is fit for going out — will j^ou be so very kind as to give 
me half an hour. Miss Waring, for a few particulars? I will take 


156 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


tliem down from your lips — it is so much the most satisfactory way; 
and perhaps you would add to your kindness by just thinking it 
over beforehand — if there is anjdhing I ought to know.” 

“ But I am going out to-morrow, Mr. Ramsay.” 

” Then after to-morrow,” he said; and rising with a bow full of 
tepder deference, went up to Lady Markham to bid her good-night. 
“ I have been having a most interesting conversation with Miss 
Waring. She has given me so many renseignements,” he said. 
” She peiTTiits me to come after to-morrow for further particulars. 
Dear Lady Markham, good-night, and au revoir” 

“ What W’as Claude saying to you, Frances?” Lady Markham 
asked with a little anxiety, when ever^^body save Markham w^as 
gone, and they were alone. 

” He asked me about Bordighera, mamma.” 

‘’Poor dear boy! About Con, and what she had said of him? 
He has a faithful heart, though people think him a little too much 
taken up with himself.” 

” He did not say anything about Constance. He asked about 
the climate and the drains — what are drains? — and if (he water was 
good, and what hotel I could recommend.” 

Ladj^ Markham laughed and colored slightly, and tapped Frances 
on the cheek. “You are a little satirical! Dear Claude! he is very 
anxious about his health. But don’t you see,” she added, “that 
w^as all a covert way of finding out about Con? He w^ants to go 
after her; but he does not want to let everybody in the world see 
that he has gone after a girl who would not have him, I have a. 
great deal of sympathy with him, for my part. ’ ’ 

Frances had no sympathy with him. She felt, on the other hand,, 
more sympathy for Constance than had moved her yet. To escape 
from such a lover Frances thought a girl might be justified in fly- 
ing to the end of the wmrld. But it never entered into her mind 
that any like danger to herself was to be thought of. She di.smissed 
Claude Ramsay from her thoughts with half resentment, half amuse- 
ment, wondering that Constance had not told her more; but feeling, 
as no such image had ever risen on her horizon before, thatl she 
would not have believed Constance. However, her sister had hap- 
pily escaped, and to herself Claude Ramsay was nothing. Far more 
important was it to think of the ordeal of to-morrow. She shiv- 
ered a little even in her w^arm room as she anticipated it. England 
seemed to be colder, grayer, more devoid of brightness in Portland 
Place than in Eaton Square. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Frances went to Portland Place next day. She went with great 
reluctance, feeling that to be thus plunged into the atmosphere of 
the other side was intolerable. Had she been able to feel that there 
was absolute right on either side, it would not have been so diffi- 
cult for her. But she knew so little of the facts of the case, and her 
natural prepossessions were so curiously double and variable, that 
every assault was painful. To be swept into the faction of the other 
side, when the first impassioned sentiment with which she had felt 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


157 


her mother’s arms around her had begun to sink inevitably into that 
silent judgment of another individual’s ways and utterances which 
is the hinderance of reason to every enthusiasm, was doubly hard. 
She was resolute indeed that not a word or insinuation against her 
mother should be permitted in her presence. But she herself had a 
hundred little doubts and questions in her mind, traitors whose 
very existence no one must suspect but herself. Her natural revul- 
sion from the thought of being forced into partisanship gave her a 
feeling of strong opposition and resistance against everything that 
might be said to her, when she stepped into the solemn house in 
Portland Place, where everything was so large, empty, and still, so 
different from her mother’s warm and cheerful abode. The manner 
in which her aunt met her strengthened this feeling. On their pre- 
vious meeting, in Lady Markham’s presence, the greeting given her 
by Mrs. Cavendish had chilled her through and through. She was 
ushered in now to the same still room, with its unused look, with 
all the chairs in their right places, and no litter of habitation about; 
but her aunt came to her with a different aspect from that which she 
had borne before. She came quickly, almost with a rush, and 
took the shrinking girl into her arms. “My dear little Frances, 
my dear child, my brother’s own little girl!” she cried, kissing her 
again and again. Her ascetic countenance was transfigured, her 
gr^ eyes warmed and shone. 

F^rances could not make any eager response to this warmth. She 
did her best to look the gratification which she knew she ought to 
have felt, and to return her aunt’s caresses with due fervor; but in 
her heart there was a chill of which she felt ashamed, and a sense 
of insincerity which was very foreign to her nature. All through 
these strange experiences, Frances felt herself insincere. She had 
not known how to respond even to her mother, and a cold sense 
that she was among strangers had crept in even in the midst of the 
bewildering certainty that she was with her nearest relations and in 
her mother’s house. In present circumstances, “How do you do. 
Aunt Charlotte?” was the only commonplace phrase she could find 
to say, in answer to the effusion of affection with which she was 
received. 

“ Now we can talk,” said Mrs. Cavendish, leading her wdth both 
hands in hers to a sofa near the fire. ‘ ‘ While my lady was here, 
it was impossible. You must have thought me cold, when my 
heart was just running over to my dear brother’s favorite child. 
But I could not open my heart before her; I never could do it. And 
there is so much to ask you. For though I w^ould not let her know 
I had never heard, you know very well, my dear. I can’t deceive 
you. Oh, Frances, why doesn’t he write? Surely, surely, he must 
have known I would never betray him — to her, or any of her race. ’ ’ 

“ Aunt Charlotte, please remember you are speaking of — ” 

“ Oh, I can’t stand on ceremony with you! I can’t do it, Con- 
stance, that had been always with her, that was another thing. But 
you, my dear, dear child! And you must not stand on ceremony 
with me. I can understand you, if no one else can. And as for 
expecting you to love her and honor her and so forth, a woman 
whom you have never seen before, who has spoiled your dear fa- 
ther’s life — ” 


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A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Frances had put up her hand to stay this flood, but in vain. With 
eyes that flashed with excitement, the quiet still gray woman was 
strangely transformed. A vivacious and animated person when 
moved by passion is not so alarming as a reserved and silent one. 
There was a force of fury and hatred in her tone and looks which 
appalled the girl. She interrupted almost rudely, insisting upon 
being heard, as soon as Mrs. Cavendish paused for breath. 

“ You must not speak to me so; you must not — you shall not! I 
will not hear it. ” 

Frances was quiet too, and there was in her also the vehemence of 
a tranquil nature transported beyond all ordinary bounds. 

Mrs. Cavendish stopped and looked at her fixedly, then suddenly 
changed her tone. “ Your father might have written to me,” she 
said — “ he might have written to me. He is my only brother, and I 
am all that remains of the family now that Minnie, poor Minnie, 
who was so much mixed up with it all, is gone. It was natural 
enough that he should go away. I always understood him, if no- 
body else did; but he might have trusted his own family, who 
would never, never have betrayed him. And to think that I should 
owe my knowledge of him now to that ill-growm, ill-conditioned — 
Oh, Frances, it was a bitter pill! To owe my knowledge of my 
brother and of you and everjdhing about you to Markham — I shall 
never be able to forget how bitter it was. ’ ’ 

“You forget: Markham is my brother. Aunt Charlotte.” 

“ He is nothing of the sort. He is your half-brother, if you care 
to keep up the connection at all. But some people don’t think much 
of it. It is the father’s side that counts. But don’t let us argue 
abaut that. Tell me how is your father? Tell me all about him. I 
love you dearly, for his sake; but above everything, I want to hear 
about him. I never had any other brother. How is he, Frances? 
To think that I should never have seen or heard cf him for twelve 
long years!” 

“ My father is — very well,” said Frances, with a sort of strangu- 
lation both in heart and voice, not knowing what to say. 

“ ‘ Very well!’ Oh, that is not much to satisfy me with, after so 
long! Where is he — and how is he living — and have you been a 
very good child to him, Frances? He deserves a -good child, for he 
was a good son. Oh, tell me a little about him. Did he tell you 
everything about us? Did he say how fond and how proud we 
were of him? and how happy we used to be at home all together? 
He must have told you. If you knew how I go back to those old 
days!^ We were such a happy united family. Life is always disap- 
pointing. It does not bring you what you think, and it is not every- 
body that has the comfort we have in looking back upon their 
youth. He must have told you of our happy life at home. 

Frances had kept the secret of her father’s silence from every one 
who had a right to blame him for it. But here she tfelt herself to 
be bound by no such precaution. His sister was on his side. It 
was in his defense and in passionate partisanship for him that she 
had assailed the mother to the child. Frances had even a moment- 
ary angry pleasure in telling the truth without mitigation or soften- 
ing. “ I don’t know whether you will believe me,” she said, “ but 
my father told me nothing, He never said a word to me about his 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


159 


past life or any one connected with him; neither you nor — any one. ’ ^ 
Tliough she had the kindest heart in the world, and never had 
harmed any one, it gave Frances almost a little pang of pleasure to 
deliver this blow. 

Mrs. Cavendish received it, so to speak, full in the face, as she 
leaned forward, eagerly waiting what Frances had to say. She 
looked at the girl aghast, the color changing in her face, a'sudden 
exclamation dying away in her throat. But after the first keen sen- 
sation, she drew herself together and regained her self-control. 
“ Yes, yes,” she cried; “I understand. He could not enter into 
anything about us without telling you of — others. He was always 
full of good feeling — and so just! No doubt, he thought if you 
heard our side, you should hear the other. But when you were 
coming away — when he knew you must hear everything, what mes- 
sage did he give you for me?” 

In sight of the anxiety which shone in her aunt’s eyes, and the 
eager bend toward her of the rigid straight figure not used to any 
yielding, Frances began to feel as if she were the culprit. ‘ ‘ In- 
deed,” she said, hesitating, ” he never said anything. I came here 
in ignorance. I never knew I had a mother till Constance came — 
nor any relations. I heard of mjr aunt for the first time from — 
mamma; and then to conceal my ignorance, I asked Markham; I 
wanted no one to know. ” 

It was some minutes before Mrs. Cavendish spoke. Her eyes 
slowly filled with tears, as she kept them fixed upon Frances, The 
blow went very deep; it struck at illusions which were perhaps 
more dear than anything in her actual existence. ” You heard of 
me for the first time from — Oh, that was cruel, that was cruel of 
Edward,” she cried, clasping her hands together — “of me for the 
first time. And you had to ask Markham! And I, that was his 
favorite sister, and that never forgot him, never for a day!” 

Frances put her own soft young hands upon those which her aunt 
wrung convulsively together in the face of this sudden pang. “ I 
think he had tried to forget his old life altogether,” she said; ” or 
perhaps it was because he thought so much of it that he could not 
tell me — I was so ignorant! He would have been obliged to tell 
me so much, if he had told me anything. Aunt Charlotte, I don’t 
think he meant to be unkind.” 

Mrs. Cavendish shook her head; then she turned upon her com- 
forter with a sort of indignation. ” And you,” she said, ” did you 
never want to know? Did you never wonder how it was that he 
was there, vegetating in a little foreign place, a naan of his gifts? 
Did you never ask whom you belonged to, what friends you had at 
home? I am afraid,” she cried suddenly, rising to her feet, throw- 
ing off the girl’s hand, which had still held hers, ” that you are like 
your mother in your heart as well as your face — a self-contained, 
self-satisfying creature. You can not have been such a child to 
him as he had a right to, or you w^ould have known all — all there 
was to know.” 

She went to the fire as she spoke and took up the poker and stmck 
the smoldering coals into a blaze with agitated vehemence, shiver- 
ing nervously, with excitement rather than cold. ‘ ‘ Of course that 
is how it is,” she said. ” You must have been thinking of your 


160 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 

own little affairs, and not of his He must have thought he would,, 
have his child to confide in and rely upon — and then have found out 
that she was not of his nature at all, nor thinking of him; and then 
he would shut his heart close — oh, I know him so well! that is so 
like Edward— and say nothing, nothing! That was always easier to 
him than saying a little. It Avas eveiything or nothing with him 
always. And Avhen he found you took no interest, he would shut 
himself up. But there’s Constance,” she cried after a pause — “ Con- 
stance is like our side. He aaoI] be able to pour out his heart, poor 
Edward, to her; and she will understand him. There is some com- 
fort in that at least.’' 

If Frances had felt a momentary pleasure in giving pain, it was 
now repaid to her doubly. She sat where her aunt had left her, fol- 
loAving Avith a quiver of consciousness everything she said. Ah, 
yes; she had been full of her own little affairs. She had thought 
of the mayonnaises, but not of any spiritual needs to which she could 
minister. She had not felt any Avonder that a man of his gifts 
should liA^e at Bordighera, or any vehemence of curiosity as to the 
family she belonged to, or what his antecedents AA^ere. She had 
taken it all quite calmly, accepting as the course of nature the ab- 
sence of relations and references to home. She had known nothing 
else, and she had not thought of anything else. Was it her fault all 
through? Had she been a disapiwintment to her father, not Avorthy 
of him or his confidence? The tears gathered slowly in her eyes. 
And Avhen Mrs. Cavendish suddenly introduced the name of Con- 
stance, Frances, too, sprung to her feet Avith a sense of the intoler- 
able, Avhich she could not master. To be told that she had failed, 
might be bearable; but that Constance, Constance! should turn out 
to possess all that she wanted, to gain the confidence she had not 
been able to gain, that Avas more than flesh and blood could bear. 
She sprung up hastily, and began with trembling hands to button 
up to her throat the close-fitting outdoor jacket Avhich she had un- 
done. Mrs. CaA>'endish stood, her face lit up Avith the ruddy blaze 
of the fire, shooting out sharp arrows of words, with her back 
turned to her young victim; while Frances, behind her, in as great 
agitation, prepared to bring the conference and controversy to a 
close. 

‘ ‘ If that is what you think, ’ ’ she said, her voice tremulous A\dth 
agitation and pain, pulling on her gloves with feverish haste, ‘ ‘ per- 
haps it will be better for me to go aAvay. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Cavendish turned round upon her with a start of astonish- 
ment. Through the semi-darkness of that London dajr, which was 
not much more than tAvilight through the white curtains, the elder 
Avoman looked round upon the girl, quivering with indignation and 
resentment, to whom she had supposed herself entitled to say Avhat 
she pleased Avithoutfear of calling forth any response of indignation. 
When she saAv the tremor in the little figure standing against the light, 
the agitated movement of the hands, she was suddenly brought back 
to herself. It flashed across her at once that the sudaen withdraAval 
of Frances, Avhom she had welcomed so Avarmly as her brother’s 
favorite child, would be a triumph for Lady Markham, already no 
doubt V(‘ry triumphant in the unA^eiling of her husband’s hiding- 
place and the recovery of the child, and in the fact that Frances re- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


161 

sembled herself, and not the father. To let that enemy understand 
that she, Waring’ s sister, could not secure Ihe affection of Waring’ s 
child, was something which Mrs. Cavendish could not face. 

“Go — where?” she said. “You forget 1 hat you have come to 
spend the day with me. My lady will not expect you till the even- 
ing, and I do not suppose you can wish to expose your father’s sis- 
ter to her remarks. ’ ’ 

“My mother,” said Frances with an almost sob of emotion, 
“ must be more to me than my father’s sister. Oh, Aunt Charlotte,” 
she cried, “ you have been very, very hard upon me. I lived as a 
child lives at home till Constance came. I had never known any- 
thing else. Why should I have asked questions? I did not know 
I had a mother. I thought it was cruel, when I first heard; and 
now you say it was my fault.” 

“ It must have been more or less your fault. A girl has no right 
to be so simple. You ought to have inquired; you ought to have 
given him no rest; you ought — ” 

“ I will tell you,” said Frances, “ what I was brought up to do; 
not to trouble papa; that was all I knew from the time I was a 
baby. I don’t know who taught me — perhaps Mariuccia, perhaps, 
only — everything. I was not to trouble him, whatever I did. I 
was never to cry, nor even to laugh too loud, nor to make a noise, 
nor to ask questions. Mariuccia and Domenico and every one had 
only this thought — not to disturb papa. He was always very kind,” 
she went on, softening, her eyes filling again. “ Sometimes he 
would be displeased about the dinner, or if his papers were dis- 
turbed. I dusted them myself, and was very careful; but some- 
times that put him out But he was very kind. He always came to 
the loggia in the evening, except when he was busy. He used to tell 
me when my perspective was wrong, and laugh at me, but not to 
hurt. I think you are mistaken. Aunt Charlotte, about papa. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Cavendish had come a little nearer, and turned her face 
toward the girl, who stood thus pleading her own cause. Neither 
of them was quick enough in intelligence to see distinctly the differ- 
ence of the two pictures which they set before each other — the sis- 
ter displaying her ideal of a delicate soul wounded and shrinking 
from the world, finding refuge in the tenderness of his child; the 
daughter making her simple representation of the father slie knew, 
a man not at all dependent on her tenderness, concerned about the 
material circumstances of life, about his dinner, and that his papers 
should not be disturbed — kind, indeed, but in the easy, indifferent 
way of a father who is scarcely aware that his little girl is bloom- 
ing into a woman. They were not clever enough to perceive this; 
and yet they felt the difference with a vague sense that both vie ws, 
yet neither, were quite true, and that there might be more to say 
on either side. Frances got choked with tears as she went on, 
which perhaps was the tiling above all others which melted her 
aunt’s heart. Mrs. Cavendish gave the girl credit for a passionate 
rf^gret and longing for the father she loved; whereas Frances in 
reality was thinking, not so much of her father, as of the serene 
childish life which was over forever, which never could come 
back again with all its sacred ignorances, its simple unities, the ab- 
sence of all complication or perplexity. Already she was so much 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


older, and had acquired so much confusing painful knowledge — 
that knowledge of good and evil, and sense of another meaning 
lurking behind the simplest seeming fact and utterance, which 
when once it has entered into the mind, is so hard to drive out 
again. 

“Perhaps it was not your fault, ” said Mrs. Cavendish at last. 
“ Perhaps he had been so m ^ "hat he did not re- 



more about it. 


member you were grown 


Frances. We maybe sure he had his reasons. And you say he 
was busy sometimes. Was he writing? What was he doing? 
Vou don’t know what hopes we used to have, and the great things 
we thought he was going to do. He was so clever; at school and 
at college, there was nobody like hin^ We were so proud of him! 
He might have been Lord Chancellor. -Charles, always says so, and 
he is not partial, like me; he might have been anything, if he had 
but tried. But all the spirit was taken out of him when lie married. 
Oh, many a man has been the same. Women have a great deal to 
answer for. I am not saying anything about your mother. You 
are quite right when you say that is not a subject to be discussed 
with you. Come down-stairs; luncheon is ready; and after that 
we will go out. We must not quarrel, Frances. We are each 
other’s nearest relations, when all is said.” 

“ I don’t want to quarrel. Aunt Charlotte. Oh, no; I never quar- 
relled with any one. And then you remind me of papa.” 

“ That is the nicest thing you have said. You can come to me, 
my dear, whenever you want to talk about him, to ease your heart. 
You can’t do that with your mother; but you will never tire me. 
You may tell me about him from morning to night, and I shall 
never be tired. Mariuccia and Domenico are the servants, I sup- 
pose? and they adore him? He>was always adored by the servants. 
He never gave any trouble, never spoke crossl}^ Oh, how thankful 
I am to be able to speak of him quite freely! I was his favorite sis- 
ter. He was just the same in outward manner to us both; he would 
not let Minnie see he had any preference; but he liked me the best, 
all the same.” 

It was very grateful to Frances that this monologue should go 
on; it spared her the necessity of answering many questions 
which would have been very difficult to her; for she was not pre- 
pared to say that the servants, though faithful, adored her father, 
or that he never gave any trouble. Her recollection of him was 
that he gave a great deal of troublepand was “very particular.” 
But Mrs. Cavendish had a happy way of giving herself the infor- 
mation she wanted, and evidently preferred to tell Frances a thou- 
sand things, instead of being told by her. And in other ways she 
was very kind, insisting that Frances should eat at lunch, that she 
should be wrapped up well when they went out in the victoria, 
that she should say whether there was any shopping she wanted to 
do. “I know my lady will look after your finery,” she said; “ that 
will be for her own credit, and help to get you off the sooner; but 
I hope you have plenty of nice underclothing and wraps. She is 
not so sure to think of these.” 

Frances, to save herself from this questioning, described the num- 
berless unnecessaries which had been already bestowed upon her. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


163 

not forgetting the pearls and other ornaments, which, she remem- 
bered with a quick sensation of shame, her mother had told her 
not to speak of, lest her aunt’s liberalities should be checked. The 
result, however, was quite different. Mrs. Cavendish grew red as 
she heard of all these acquisitions, and when they returned to Port- 
land Place, led Frances to her own room, and opened to her admir- 
ing gaze the safe, securely fixed into the wall, where her jewels 
were kept. “ There are not many that can be called family jew- 
els, she said; “ but I’ve no daughter of my own, and I should not 
like it to be said that you had got nothing from your father’s side.” 

Thus it was a conflict of liberality, not a withholding of presents, 
because she was already supplied, which Frances had to fear. She 
was compelled to accept with burning cheeks and eyes weighed 
down with shame and reluctance, ornaments which a few weeks 
ago would have seemed to her good enough for a queen. Oh, what 
a flutter of pleasure there had been in her heart when her father 
gave her the little necklace of Genoese filigree, which appeared to 
her the most beautiful thing in the world. She slipped into her 
pocket the cluster of emeralds her aunt gave her, as if she had been 
a thief, and hid the pretty ring which was forced upon her finger, 
under her glove. “ Oh, they are much too fine for me. They are 
too good for any girl to wear. I do not want them, indeed. Aunt 
Charlotte!” 

“That may be,” Mrs. Cavendish replied; “but I want to give 
them to you. It shall never be said that all the good things came 
from her and nothing but trumpery from me.” 

Frances took home her spoils with a sense of humiliation which 
weighed her to the ground. Before this, however, she had made 
the acquaintance of Mr. Charles Cavendish, the great Q.C., who 
came into the cold drawing-room two minutes before dinner in irre- 
proachable evening costume, a well-mannered, well-looking man of 
middle age, or a little more, who shook hands cordially with 
Frances, and told her he was very glad to see her. ‘ ‘ But dinner is 
a little late, isn’t it?” he said to his wife. The drawing-room 
looked less cold by lamplight; and Mrs. Cavendish herself, in her 
soft velvet evening-gown with a good deal of lace — or perhaps it 
was after the awakening and excitement of her intercourse with 
Frances — had less the air of being like the furniture, out of use. 
The dinner was very luxurious and dainty. Frances, as she sat be- 
tween husband and wife, observing both very closely without being 
aware of it, decided within herself that in this particular her aunt 
Charlotte again reminded her of papa. Mr. Cavendish was very 
agreeable at dinner. He gave his wife several pieces of information 
indeed which Frances did not understand, but in general talked 
about the things that were going on, the great events of the time, 
the news, so much of it as was interesting, with all the ease of a 
man of the world. And he asked Frances a few civil and indeed 
kindly questions about herself. “You must take care of our east 
winds,” he said; “ you will find them very sharp after the Riviera.” 

“lam not delicate,” she said; “I don’t think they will hurt 
me.” 

“ Ho, you are not delicate,” he replied, with what Frances felt to 
be a look of approval; “ one has only to look at you to see that. 


164 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


But fine elastic health like yours is a great possession, and you must 
take care of it.” He added with a smile, a moment after: ” We 
never think that when we are young; and when we are old, think- 
ing does little good, ” 

“You have not much to complain of, Charles, in that respect,” 
said his wife, who was always rather solemn. 

“ Oh, nothing at all,” was his reply. And shortly after, dinner 
by this time being over, he gave her a significant look, to which 
she responded by rising from the table. 

“ It is time for us to go upstairs, my dear,” she said to Frances. 

And when the ladies reached the drawing-room, it had relapsed 
into its morning aspect, and looked as chilly and as unused as 
before, 

“Your uncle is one of the busiest men in London, ” said Mrs. 
Cavendish with a scarcely perceptible sigh. “He talked of your 
health; but if he had not the finest health in the world, he could 
not do it; he never takes any rest.” 

“ Is he going to work now?” Frances asked with a certain awe. 

“ He will take a doze for half an hour; then he will have his 
coffee. At ten he will come upstairs to bid me good-night; and 
then — I dare not say how long he will sit up after that. He can do 
with less sleep than any other man, I think.” She spoke in a tone 
that was full of pride, yet with a tone of pathos in it too. 

“ In that way, you can not see very much of him,” Frances said. 

“lam more pleased that my husband should be the first lawyer 
in England, than that he should sit in the drawing-room with me,” 
she answered proudly. Then, with a faint sigh: “ One has to pay 
for it, ” she added. 

The girl looked round upon the dim room with a shiver, which 
she did her best to conceal. Was it worth the prize, she wondered? 
the cold dim house, the silence in it which weighed down the soul, 
the half-hour’s talk (no more) round the table, followed by a long 
lonely evening. She wondered if they had been in love with each 
other when they were young, and perhaps moved heaven and earth 
for a chance hour together, and all to come to this. And there was 
her own father and mother, who probably had loved each other too. 
As she drove along to Eaton Square, warmly wrapped in the rich 
fur cloak which Aunt Charlotte had insisted on adding to her other 
gifts, these examples of married life gave her a curious thrill of 
thought, as involuntarily she turned tl^em over in her mind. If the 
case of a man were so with his wife, it would be well not to marry, 
she said to herself, as the inquirers did so many years ago. 

And then she blushed crimson, with a sensation of heat which 
made her throw her cloak aside, to think that she was going back 
to her mother, as if she had been sent out upon a raid, laden with 
spoils. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

There were voices in the drawing-room as Frances ran upstairs, 
which warned her that her own appearance in her morning dress 
would be undesirable then. She went on with a sense of relief to 
her own room where she threw aside the heavy cloak, lined with 


A HOUSE DIYIUED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


165 


fur, which her aunt had insisted on wrapping her in. It was too 
grave, too ample for Frances, just as the other presents she had 
received were too rich and valuable for her wearing. She took the 
emerald brooch out of her pocket in its little case, and thrust it 
away into a drawer, glad to be rid of it, wondering whether it 
would be her duty to show it, to exhibit her presents. She divined 
that Lady Markham would be pleased, that she would congratulate 
her upon having made herself agreeable to her aunt, and perhaps 
repeat that horrible encouragement to her to make what progress 
she could in the affections of the Cavendishes, because they were 
rich and had no heirs. If, instead of saying this. Lady Markham 
had but said that Mrs. Cavendish was lonely, having no children, 
and little good of her husband’s society, how different it might 
have been. How anxious then would Frances have been to visit 
and cheer her father’s sister! The girl, though she was very sim- 
ple, had a great deal of inalienable good sense; and she could not 
but wonder within herself how her mother could make so strange a 
mistake. 

It was late before Lady Markham came upstairs. She came in 
shading her candle with her hand, gliding noiselessly to her child’s 
bedside. “ Are you not asleep, Frances? I thought you would be 
too tired to keep awake.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no. I have done nothing to tire me, I thought you would 
not want me down-stairs, as I was not dressed.” 

“ I always want you,” said Lady Markham, stooping to kiss her. 
“ But I quite understand why you did not come. There was nobody 
that could have interested you. Some old friends of mine, and a 
man or two whom Markham brought to dine; but nothing young 
or pleasant. And did you have a tolerable day? Was poor Char- 
lotte a little less gray and cold? But Constance used to tell me she 
was onlj^ cold when I was there. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think she was cold. She was — very kind; at least that 
is what she meant, I am sure,” said Frances, anxious to do her aunt 
justice. 

Lady Markham laughed softly, with a sort of suppressed satis- 
faction. She was anxious that Frances should please. She had her- 
self, at a considerable sacrifice of pride, kept up friendly relations, 
or at least a show of friendly relations, with her husband’s sister. 
But notwithstanding all this, the tone in which Frances spoke was 
balm to her. The cloak was an evidence that the girl had succeeded; 
and yet she had not joined herself to the other side. This unex- 
pected triumph gave a softness to Lady Markham’s voice. 

‘ ‘We must remember, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ that poor Charlotte is very much 
alone. T^en one is much alone, one’s very voice gets rusty, so to 
speak. It sounds hoarse in one’s throat. You may think, perhaps, 
that I have not much experience of that. Still, 1 can understand; 
and it takes some time to get it toned into ordinary smoothness. It 
is either too expressive, or else it sounds cold, A great deal of 
allowance is to be made for a woman who spends so much of her 
life alone,” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Frances, with a burst of tender compunction, 
taking her mother’s soft white dimpled hand in her own, and kiss- 


166 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


ing it with a fervor which meant penitence as well as enthusiasm, 
“ It is so good of you to remind me of that.” 

” Because she has not much good to say of me? My dear, there 
are a great many things that you don’t know, that it would be 
hard to explain to you: we must forgive her for that.” 

And for a moment Lady Markham looked very grave, turning her 
face away toward the vacancy of the dark room with something that 
sounded like a sigh. Her daughter had never loved her so much 
as at this moment. She laid her cheek upon her mother’s hand, 
and felt the full sweetness of that contact enter into her heart. 

“But I am disturbing your beauty-sleep, my love,” she said; 
“and I want you to look your best to-morrow; there are several 
people coming to-morrow. Did she give you that great cloak, 
Frances? How like poor Charlotte! I know the cloak quite well. 
It is far too old for you. But that is beautiful sable it is trimmed 
with; it will make you something. She is fond of giving presents.” 
Lady Markham was very quick, full of the intelligence in which 
Mrs. Cavendish fkiled. She felt the instinctive loosening of her 
child’s hands from her own, and that the girl’s cheek was lifted 
from that tender pillow. “ But,” she said, ” we’ll say no more of 
that to-night, ’ ’ and stooped and kissed her, and drew her covering 
about her with all the sweetness of that care which Frances had 
never received before. Nevertheless, the involuntary and horrible 
feeling that it was clever of her mother to stop when she did and 
say no more, struck chill to the girl’s very soul. 

Next day Mr. Ramsay came in the afternoon, and immediately 
addressed himself to Frances. ” I hope you have not forgotten 
your promise. Miss Waring, to give me all the renseignements. I 
should not like to lose such a good chance.” 

“I don’t think I have any information to give you — if it is about 
Bordighera, you mean. I am fond of it; but then I have lived 
there all my life. Constance thought it dull.” 

” Ah, yes, to be sure — your sister went there. But her health 
was perfect. I have seen her go out in the wildest weather, in days 
that made me shiver. She said that to see the sun always shining 
bored her. She liked a great deal of excitement and variety — don’t 
you think?” he added aher a moment, in a tentative way. 

” The sun does not shine always,” said Frances, piqued for the 
reputation of her home, as if this were an accusation. ‘‘ We have 
gray days sometimes, and sometimes storms, beautiful storms, 
when the sea is all in foam.” ^ 

He shivered a little at the idea. ” I have never yet found the per- 
fect place in which there is nothing of all that,” he said. 
” Wherever I have been, there are cold days — even in Algiers, you 
know. No climate is perfect. I don’t go in much for society w'hen 
I am at a health-place. It disturbs one’s thoughts and one’s tem- 
per, and keeps you from fixing your mind upon your cure, which 
you should always do. But I suppose you know everybody there?” 

” There is— scarcely any one there,” she said, faltering, remem- 
bering at once that her father was not a person to whom to offer in- 
troductions, 

“ So much the better,” he said more cheerfully. ” It is a thing I 
have often heard doctors say, that society was quite undesirable. It 


A HOtrSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


167 

disturbs one’s mind. One can’t be so exact about hours. In short, 
it places health in a secondary place, which is fatal. I am always 
extremely rigid on that point. Health — must go before all. Now, 
dear Miss Waring, to details, if you please.” He took out a little 
note-book, bound in russia, and drew forth a jeweled pencil-case. 
” The hotels first, I beg; and then the other particulars can be 
filled in. We can put them under different heads: (1) Shelter; (2) 
Exposure; (3) Size and convenience of apartments; (4) Nearness to 
church, beach, &c. I hope you don’t think I am asking too much?” 

” I am so glad to see that you have not given him up because of 
Con,” said one of Lady Markham’s visitors, talking very earnestly 
over the tea-table, with a little nod and gesture to indicate of whom 
she was speaking. ” He must be very fond of you, to keep coming; 
or he must have some hope.” 

‘‘ I think he is rather fond of me, poor Claudel” Lady Markham 
replied without looking round. ” I am one of the oldest friends he 
has ” 

“ But Constance, you know, gave him a terrible snub. I should 
not have wondered if he had never entered the house again. ’ ’ 

” He enters the house almost every day, and will continue to do 
so, I hope. Poor boy, he can not afford to throw away his friends.” 

” Then that is almost the only luxury he can’t afford.” 

Lady Marl ham smiled upon this remark. ‘ ‘ Claude, ’ ’ she said, 
turning round, ” don’t you want some tea? Come and get it while 
it is hot.” 

” I am getting some renseicmements from Miss Waring, It is very 
good of her. She is telling me all about Bordighera, which, so far 
as I can see, will be a very nice place for the winter, ’ ’ said Ramsay, 
coming up to the tea-table with his little note-book in his hand. 
” Thanks, dear Lady Markham. A little sugar, please. Sugar is 
extremely nourishing, and it is a great pity to leave it out in diet — 
except, you know, when you are inclining to fat. Banting is at 
the bottom of all this fashion of doing without sugar. It is not good 
for little thin fellows like me.” 

“I gave it up long before I ever heard of Banting, ” said the 
stout lady, for it need scarcely be said that there was a stout lady; 
no tea-party in England ever assembled without one. The individ- 
ual in the present case was young, and rebellious against the fate 
which had overtaken her — not of" the soft, smiling, and contented 
kind. 

‘ ‘ It does us real good, ’ ’ said Claude, with his softly pathetic 
voice. ‘ ‘ I have seen one or two very sad instances where the fat 
did not go away, you know, but got limp and fiaccid, and the last 
state of that man was worse than the first. Dear lady, I think you 
should be very cautious. To make experiments with one’s health is 
really criminal. We are getting on very nicely with the remeigne- 
ments. Miss Waring has remembered a great deal. She thought 
she could not tell me anything; but she has remembered a great 
deal.” 

‘‘Bordighera? Is that where Constance is?” the ladies said to 
each other round the low tea-table where Lady Markham was so 
busy. She smiled upon them all, and answered ‘‘ Yes,” without 
any tinge of the embarrassment which, perhaps, they hoped to see. 


168 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


But of course as a resident she is not living among the people at 
the hotels. You know how the people who live in a place hold 
themselves apart; and the season is almost over. I don’t think that 
either tourists or mvalids passing that way are likely to see very 
much of Con.” 

In the meantime, Frances, as young Ramsay had said, had been 
honestly straining her mind to “ remember ” what she could about 
the Marina and the circumstances there. She did not know any- 
thing about the east wind, and had no recollections of how it 
affected the place. She remembered that the sun shone in at the 
windows all day; which of course meant, as he informed her, a 
southern exposure; and that in all the hotel gardens, as well as 
elsewhere, there were palms growing, and hedges of lemons and 
orange-trees; and that at the Angleterre — or was it the Victoria f the 
housekeeper was English; along with other details of a similar 
kind. There were no balls; very few concerts or entertainments of 
any kind; no afternoon tea-parties. ” How could there be?” said 
Franees, “when there were only ourselves, the Gaunts and the 
Durants. ’ ’ 

“ Only themselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants,” Ramsay wrote 
down in his little book. “ How delightful that must be. Thank 
you so much. Miss Waring. Usually, one has to pay for one’s ex- 
perience; but thanks to you, I feel that I know all about it. It 
seems a place in which one could do one’s self eveiy justice. I 
shall speak to Dr. Lull about it at once. I have no doubt he will 
think it the very place for me.” 

“You will And it dull,” said Frances, looking at him curiously, 
wondering was it possible that he could be sincere, or whether this 
was his way of justifying to himself his intention of following Con- 
stance. But nothing could be more steadily matter-of-fact than 
the young man’s aspect. 

“Yes, no doubt I shall find it dull. I don’t so very much ob- 
ject to that. At Cannes and those places there is a continual racket 
going on. One might almost as "vrell be in London, One is seduced 
into going out in the evening, doing all sorts of things. I think 
your place is an ideal place — plenty of sunshine and no amusements. 
How can I thank you enough. Miss Waring, for your renseigne- 
menu ? I shall speak to Dr. Lull without delay. ” 

“But you must recollect that it will soon be getting very hot; 
and even the people who live there xill be going away. Mr, Dur- 
ant sometimes takes the duty at Homburg or one of those places: 
and the Gaunts come home to England; and even we — ” 

Here Frances paused for a moment to watch him, and she 
thought that the pencil with which he was still writing down all 
these precious details, paused too. He looked up at her, as if wait- 
ing for further information. “ Yes?” he said interrogatively. 

“ Even we — go up among the mountains where it is cooler,” she 
said. 

He looked a little thoughtful at this; but presently threw her 
back into perplexity by saying calmly: “ That would not matter to 
me so much, since I am quite sincere in thinking that when one 
goes to a health-place, one should give one’s self up to one’s health. 
But unfortunately, or perhaps I shall say fortunately. Miss Waring, 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 169 

England is just as good as anywhere else in the summer; and Dr. 
Lull has not thought it necessary this year to send me away. But 
I feel (juite set up with your renseignemenU," he addcd/putting 
back his book into his pocket, “ and I certainly shall think of it for 
another year.” 

Frances had been so singled out for the purpose of giving the 
young invalid information, that she found hei-self a little apart from 
the party when he went away. They were all ladies, and all in- 
, timates, and the unaccustomed girl was not prepared for the on- 
slaught of this curious and eager, though so pretty and fashionable 
mob. “ What are those renseignements you have been giving him? 
Is he going oil after Con? Has he been questioning you about 
Con? We are all dying to know. And what do you think she will 
say to him if he goes out after her?” cried all, speaking together, 
those soft eager voices, to which Frances did not know how to reply. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Frances became accustomed to the presence of young Ramsay 
after this. He appeared almost every day, very often in the after- 
noon, eager for tea, and always disposed to inquire for further 
renseignements, though he was quite certain that he was not to leave 
England till autumn at the earliest. She began to regard him as a 
younger brother, or cousin at the least, a perfectly harmless individ- 
ual, with whom she could talk when he wanted her with a gentle 
complacence, without any reference to her owm pleasure. As a 
matter of fact it did not give her any pleasure to talk to Claude. 
She was kind to him for his sake; but she had no desire for his pres- 
ence on her owm account. It surprised her that he ever could have 
been thought of as a possible mate for Constance. Constance was 
so much cleverer, so much more advanced in every way than her- 
self, that to suppose she could put up with what Frances found so 
little attractive, wms a constant amazement to the girl. She could 
not but express this on one of the occasions, not so very frequent as 
she had expected, on which her mother and she were alone to- 
gether. 

” Is it really true,” she said at the end of a long silence, “ that 
there was a question of a — marriage between Constance and Mr. 
Ramsay?” 

“It is really quite true,” said her mother with a smile. “ And 
why not? Do you disapprove?” 

“It is not that I disapprove; I have no right to disapprove; it is 
only that it seems so impossible. ” 

“ Why? I see nothing impossible in it. He is of suitable age; he 
is handsome. You can not deny that he is handsome, howmver much 
you may dislike him, my dear.” 

“ But I don’t dislike him at all; I like him very much — in a kind 
of way.” 

“ You have every appearance of doing so,” said Lady Markham 
with meaning. “You talk to him more, I think, than to any one 
else.” 

“ That is because — ” 


170 ^ HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST /ITSELF. 

“ Oh, I don’t ask any reason, Frances. If you like his society, 
that is reason enough— the best of reasons. And evidently he likes 
you. He would, no doubt, be more suitable to you than to Con- 
stance.” ■ ^ 

“Mamma! I don’t know what you mean, ” Frances woke up 
suddenly from her musing state, and looked at her mother with 
wide open startled eyes. 

“1 don’t mean anything. I only ask you to point out wherein 
his unsuitability lies. Young, handsome, nice, and very rich. What 
could a girl desire more? You think, perhaps, as you have been so 
simply brought up, that a heroine like Con should have had a 
duke or an earl at the least. But people think less of the impor- 
tance of titles as they know Society better. Claude is of an excellent 
old family — better than many peers. She would have been a very 
fortunate young woman with such an establishment; but she has 
taken her own way. I hope you will never be so hot-headed as your 
sister, Frances. You look much more practical and reasonable. 
You will not, I think, dart off at a tangent without warning or 
thought.” 

Frances looked her mother doubtfully in the face. Her feelings 
fluctuated strangely in respect to this central figure in the new w^orld 
round her. To make acquaintance with your parents for the first 
time when you have reached the critical age, and are no longer 
able to accept everything with the matter-of-fact serenity of a chila, 
is a curious experience. Children, indeed, are tremendous critics, 
at the tribunal of whose judgment we all stand unawares, and have 
our just place allotted to us, with an equity which happily leads to 
no practical conclusions, but which no tribunal on earth can equal 
for clear sight and remorseless decision. Eighteen is not quite so 
abstract as eight; yet the absence of familiarity, and that love 
which is instinctive, and happily quite above all decisions of the 
judgment, makes in such an extraordinary case as that of Frances, 
the sudden call upon the critical faculties, the consciousness that 
accompanies their exercise, and the underlying sense, never absent, 
that all this is unnatural and wTong, into a complication full of dis- 
tress and uncertainty. A va^e question whether it were possible 
that such a conflict as that which had ended in Constance’s flight, 
should ever arise between Lady Markham and herself passed 
through the mind of Frances. If it should do so, the expedient 
which had been open to Constance v^uld be to herself impossible. 
All pride and delicacy of feeling, all ^nse of natural justice, would 
prevent her from adopting that course. The question would have 
to be w^orked out between her mother and herself, should it ever 
occur Was it possible that it could ever occur? She looked at Lady 
Markham, who had returned to her usual morning occupation of 
writing letters, with a questioning gaze. There had been a pause, 
and Lady Markham had waited for a moment for a reply. Then 
she had taken up her pen again, and with a smiling nod had re- 
turned to her correspondence. 

Frances sat and pondered with her face turned toward the writ- 
ing-table, at which her mother spent so much of her time. The num- 
ber of letters that were written there every morning filled her with 
amazement, Waring had written no letters, and received only one 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


171 


now and then, which Frances understood to he about business. She 
had looked very respectfully at first on the sheaves which were 
every day taken away, duly stamped, from that well-worn but 
much decorated writing-table. When it had been suggested to her 
that she too must have letters to write, she had dutifully compiled 
her little bulletin for her father, putting aside as quite a different 
matter the full chronicle of her proceedings, written at a great 
many reprises, to Mariuccia, which somehow did not seem at all to 
come under the same description. It had, however, begun to be- 
come apparent to Frances, unwillingly, as she made acquaintance 
with everything about her, that Lady Markham’s correspondence 
was really by no means of the importance which at the first glance 
it appeared. It seemed to consist generally in the conveyance of 
little bits of news, of little engagements, of the echoes of what peo- 
ple said and did ^ hoals of little 



notes on every 


paper, with 


every kind of monogram, crest, and device, and every new idea in 
shape and form which the genius of the fashionable stationer could 
work out. “ I have just heard from Lady So-and-so the funniest 
story,” Lady Markham would say to her son, repeating the anec- 
dote — which on many occasions Frances, listening, did not see the 
point of. But then both mother and son were cleverer people than 
she was. ” I must write and let Mary St. Serle and Louisa Avenel 
know — it will amuse them so;” and there was at once an addition 
of two letters to the budget. Frances did not think — all under her 
breath, as it were, in involuntary unexpressed comment — that the 
tale was worth a pretty sheet of paper, a pretty envelope — both deco- 
rated with Lady Markham’s cipher and coronet — and a penny 
stamp. But so it was; and this was one of the principal occupa- 
tions evidently of a great lady’s life. Lady Markham considered it 
very grave, and ” a duty.” She allowed nothing to interfere with 
her correspondence. ‘ ‘ 1 have my letters to write, ’ ’ she said, as who 
should say, “I have my day’s work todo. ” By degrees Frances 
lost her respect for this day’s work, and would watch the manu- 
factory of one note after another with eyes that were unwillingly 
cynical, wondering "within herself whether it would make any 
difference to the world if pen and ink were forbidden in that house. 
Markham, too, spoke of writing his letters as a valid reason for 
much consumption of time. But then, no doubt, Markham had 
land agents to write to, and lawyers, and other necessary people. 
In this, Frances did not do justice to her mother, who also had busi- 
ness letters to write, and did a great deal in stocks, and kept her eyes 
on the money market. The girl sat and watched her with a sort of 
fascination as her pen ran lightly over sheet after sheet. Sometimes 
Lady Markham was full of tenaerness and generosity, and had the 
look of understanding everybody’s feelings. She was never un- 
kind. She never took a bad view of any one, or suggested evil or 
interested motives, as even Frances perceived, in her limited experi 
ence, so many people to do. But, on the other hand, there would 
come into her face sometimes a look — which seemed to say that she 
might be inexorable, if once she had made up her mind; a look be- 
fore which it seemed to Frances that flight like that of Constance 
would be the easiest way. Frances was not sufficiently instructed 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


m 

in human nature to know that anomalies of this kind are common 
enough; and that nobody is always and in all matters good, any 
more than anybody is in all things ill. It troubled her to perceive 
the junction of these different qualities in her mother; and still 
more it troubled her to think what, in case of coming to some point 
of conflict, she should do? How would she gel out of it? ^ Would 
it be only by succumbing wholly, or had she the courage in her to 
fight it out? 

“ Little un,” said Markham, coming up to her suddenly, “ why 
do you look at the mother so? Are you measuring yourself against 
her, to see how things would stand if it came to a fight?” 

“ Markham?” Frances started with a great blush of guilt. “ I 
did not know you were here. 1 — never heard you come in. ” 

“You were so lost in thought. I have been here these five min- 
utes, waiting for an opportunityto put in a word. Don’t you know 
I’m a thought-reader, like those fellows that find pins? Take my 
advice. Fan, and never let it come to a fight.” 

“I don’t know how to fight,” she said, crimsoning more and 
more; “ and besides, I was not thinking — there is nothing to fight 
about.” 

“ Fibs, these last,” he said. “ Come out and take a little walk 
wdth me; you are looking pale; and I will tell you a thing or two. 
Mother, I am ^oing to take her out for a walk; she wants air.” 

‘ ‘ Do, dear,^’ said Lady Markham, turning half round with a 
smile. “ After luncheon, she is going out with me; but in the mean- 
time, you could not do better — get a little of the morning into her 
face, while I finish my letters.” She turned again with’ a soft smile 
on her face to send off that piece of information to Louisa Avenel 
and Mary St. Serle, closing an envelope as she spoke, writing the 
address with such a preoccupied yet amiable air — a woman who, 
but for having so much to do, would have had no thought or ambi- 
tion beyond her house. Markham waited till Frances appeared in 
the trim little walking-dress which the mother had paid her the 
high compliment of making no change in. They turned their faces 
as usual toward the park, where already, though Easter was very 
near, there was a flutter of fine company in preparation for the 
more serious glories of the Row, after the season had fairly set in. 

“ Little Fan, you mustn’t fight,” were the first words that Mark- 
ham said. 

She felt her heart begin to beat loud. “ Markham! there is noth- 
ing to fight about — oh, nothing. What put fighting in your head?” 

“ Never mind! It is my duty to instruct your youth; and I think 
I see troubles brewing. Don’t be so kind to that little beggar 
Claude. He is a selfish little beggar, though he looks so smoo1;h; 
and since Constance won’t have him, he will soon begin to think 
he may as well have you.” 

“Markham!” Frances felt herself choking with horror and 
shame. 

“You have got my name quite pat, my dear; but that is neither 
here nor there. Markham has nothing to do with it except to put 
you on your guard. Don’t you know, you little innocent, what is 
the first duty of a mother? Then, I can tell you: to marry her 
daughters well; brilliantly, if possible, but at all events weU—ov 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 173 

anyhow tO'-marry them; or else she is a failure; and all the birds of 
her set come round her and peck her to death.” 

“I often don’t understand your jokes,” said Frances with a little 
dignity, “ and I suppose this is a joke.” 

‘‘ And you think it is a joke in doubtful taste? So should I, if I 
meant it that way but I don’t. Listen, Fan; I am much of that 
opinion myself.” 

“ That a mother — that a lady — ? You are always saying horrible 
things.” 

“ It is true, though — if it is best that a girl should marry — mind 
you, I only say if — then it is her mother’s duty. You can’t look 
out for yourself — at least I am very glad you are not of the kind 
that do, my little Fan.” 

“ Markham,” said Frances, with a dignity which seemed to raise 
her small person a foot at least, “ I have never heard such things 
talked about; and I don’t wish to hear anything more, please. In 
books,” she added, after a moment’s interval, “it is ihe gentle- 
men — ” 

“ Who look out? But that is all changed, my dear. Fellows fall 
in love — which is quite different — and generally fall in love with 
the wrong person; but you see I was not supposing that you were 
likely to do anything so wild as that.” 

“ I hope not,” cried Frances hurriedly. “ However, ” she add- 
ed, after another pause, coloring deeply, but yet looking at him 
with a certain courageous air, “ if there was any question about being 
— married, which of course there is not — I never heard that there 
was any other way.” 

“ Brava, Fan! Come, now, here is the little thing’s own opin- 
ion, which is worth a great deal. It would not matter, then, who 
the man was, so long as that happened, eh? Let us know the prem- 
ises on either side.” 

“You are a great deal older than I am, Markham,” said Frances. 

‘ Granted, my dear — a great deal. And what then? I should be 
wiser you mean to say? But so I am. Fan.” 

“ It was not that I meant. I mean, it is you who ought — to 
marry. You are a man. You are the eldest, the chief one of your 
family. I have always read in books — ” 

Markham put up his hand as a shield. He stopped to laugh, re- 
peating over and over again that one note of mirth with which it 
was his wont to express his feelings. “ Brava, Fan!” he repeated 
when he could speak. “You are a little Trojan. This is something 
like carrying the war into the enemy’s country.” He was so much 
tickled by the assault, that the water stood in his eyes. “ What 
a good thing we are not in the Row, where I should have been 
delivered over to the talk of the town. Frances, my little dear, 
you are the funniest of little philosophers.” 

‘ Where is the fun?” said Frances gravely. “ And I am not a 
philosopher, Markham; I am only — your sister.” 

At this the little man became serious all at once, and took her 
hand and drew it within his arm. They were walking up Consti- 
tution Hill, where there are not many spectators. “ Yes, rny dear,” 
he said, “ you are as nice a little sister as a man could desire;” and 
walked on, holding her arm close to him with an expressive clasp 


174 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


which spoke more than words. The touch of nature and the little 
suggestive protfer of affection and kindred which was in the girl’s 
words, touched his heart. He said nothing till they were about 
emerging upon the noise and clamor of the world at the great 
thoroughfare which they had to cross. Then, “ After all,” he said, 
“ yours is a very natural proposition. Fan. It is I who ought to 
marry. Many people would say it was my duty; and perhaps I 
might have been of that opinion once. But I’ve a great deal on 
my conscience, dear. You think I’m rather a good little man, don’t 
you? fond of ladies’ society, and of my mother and little sister, 
which is such a good feature, everybody says? Well, but that’s a 
mistake, my dear. I don’t know that I am at all a fit person to be 
walking about London streets and into the park with an innocent 
little creature such as you are, under my arm.” 

“Markhaml” she cried, with a tone which was half astonished, 
half indignant, and her arm thrilled within his — not, perhaps, with 
any intention of withdrawing itself; but that was what he thought. 

” Wait,” he said, “ till I have got you safely across the corner — 
there is always a crowd— and then, if you are frightened, and pre- 
fer another chaperon, we’ll find one, you may be sure, before we 
have gone a dozen steps. Come now; there is a little lull. Be 
plucky, and keep your head. Fan.” 

“ I want no other chaperon, Markham; I like you.” 

“ Do you, my dear? Well, you can’t think what a pleasure that 
is to me. Fan. You wouldn’t, probably, if you knew me better. 
However, you must stick to that opinion as long as you .can. Who, 
do you think, would marry me if 1 were to try? An ugly little fel- 
low, not very well off, with several very bad tendencies and a 
mother.” 

‘ ‘ A mother, Markham ? ” 

“Yes, my dear; to whom he is devoted — who must always be 
the first to him. That’s a beautiful sentiment, don’t you think? 
But wives have a way of not liking it. I could not force her to 
call herself the dowager, could I, Fan? She is a pretty w'oman yet. 
She is really younger than I am. She would not like it.” 

“ I think you are only making fun of me, Markham. I don’t 
know what you mean. What could mamma have to do with it? 
If she so much wanted Constance to marry surely she must want 
you still more, for you are so much older; and then — ” 

“ There is no want of arguments,” he said with a laugh, shaking 
his head. “ Conviction is what is wanted. There might have been 
times when I should have much relished your advice; but nobody 
would have had me, fortunately. No, I must not give up the 
mother, my dear. Don’t you know I was the cause of all the mis- 
chief — at least of a great part of the mischief — when your father 
went away? And now, I must make a mess of it again, and put 
folly into Con’s head. The mother is an angel. Fan, or she would 
not trust you with me.” 

It flashed across Frances’ memory that Constance had warned 
her not to let herself fall into Markham’s hands; but this only be- 
wildered the girl in the softening of her heart to him, and in the 
general bewilderment into which she was thus thrown back. “ I 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


175 

do not believe ^ou can be bad,” she said, earnestly; “ you must be 
doing yourself injustice.” 

By this time they were in the Row in all the brightness of the 
crowd, which, if less great than at a later period, was more friendly. 
Markham had begun to pull off his hat to every third lady he met, 
to put out his hand right and left, to distribute nods and greetings. 
“We’ll resume the subject some time or other,” he said, with a 
smile, aside to Frances, disengaging her arm from his. The girl felt 
as if she had suddenly lost her anchorage, and was thrown adrift 
upon this sea of strange faces; and thrown at the same time back 
into a moral chaos, full of new difficulties and wonders, out of 
which she could not see her way. 


CHAPTER XXVin. 

A DAY or two after they all went to the Priory for Easter. 

The Priory was in the Isle of Wight, and it was Markham’s 
house. It was not a very great house, nor was it mediaeval and mys- 
terious, as an unsophistocated imagination naturally expected. Its 
name came, it was said (or hoped), from an old ecclesiastical estab- 
lishment once planted there; but the house itself was a sort of Straw- 
berry-Hill Gothic, with a good deal of plaster and imitated ornament 
of the perpendicular kind; that is to say, the worst of its kind, 
which is, unfortunately, that which most attracts the imitator. It 
stood on a slope above the beach, where the vegetation was soft and 
abundant, recalling more or less to the mind of Frances the aspect 
of the country with which she was best acquainted — the great bos- 
kets of glistering green laurel and laurestina simulating the 
daphnes and orange-trees, and the gray downs above recalling in 
some degree the scattered hilltops above the level of the olives; 
though the great rollers of the Atlantic which thundered in upon 
the beach were not like that rippling blue which edged the Riviera 
in so many rims of delicate color. The differences, however, struck 
Frances less than the resemblance, for which she had scarcely been 
prepared, and which gave her a great deal of surprised pleasure at 
the first glance. This put temporarily out of her mind all the new 
and troublesome thoughts which her conversation with Markham 
had called forth, and which had renewed her curiosity about her 
step-brother, whom she had begun to receive into the landscape 
around her with the calm of habit and without asking any ques- 
tions. Was he really bad, or rather, not good? — which was as far 
as Frances could go. Had he really been the cause, or partly the 
cause, of the separation between her father and mother? She was 
bewildered by these little breaks in the curtain which concealed the 
past from her so completely, that past which was so well known to 
the others around, which an invincible delicacy prevented her from 
speaking of or asking questions about. All went on so calmly 
around her, as if nothing out of the ordinary routine had ever been; 
and yet she was aware not only that much had been, but that it re- 
mained so distinctly in the minds of those smiling people as to in- 
fluence their conduct and form their motives still. Though it was 
Markham’s house it was his mother who was the uncontested sov- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


176 

ereign, not less, probably more than if the real owner had been her 
husband instead of her son. And even Frances, little as she was 
acquainted with the world, was aware that this was seldom the case. 
And why should not Markham at his age, whicli to her seemed at 
least ten years more than it was, be married, when it was already 
thought important that Constance should marry? These were very 
bewildering questions, and the moment to resume the subject never 
seemed to come. 

There was a party in the house, which included Claude Ramsay, 
and the Sir Thomas, the elder person in whom Lady Markham had 
thought there could be nothing particularly interesting. He was a 
very frequent member of the family party, all the same; and now 
that they were living under the same roof, Frances did not find him 
without interest. There was also a lady with two daughters, whose 
appearance was very interesting to the girl. They reminded her a 
little of Constance, and of the difficulty she had found in finding 
subjects on which to converse with her sister. The Miss Montagues 
knew a CTeat many people, and talked of them continually; but 
Frances knew nobody. She listened with interest, but she could 
add nothing either to their speculations or recollections. She did 
not know anything about the contrivances which brought about the 
marriage between Cecil Gray and Emma White. She was utterly 
incompetent even to hazard an opinion as to what Lady Milbrook 
would do now; and she did not even understand about the hospitals 
■which they visited and ‘ ‘ took an interest ’ ’ in. She tried very hard 
to get some little current with which she could make herself ac- 
quainted in the river of their talk; but nothing could be more diffi- 
cult. Even when she brought out her sketch-book and opened 
ground upon that subject — about which the poor little girl modestly 
believed she knew by experience a very little — she was silenced in 
five minutes by their scientific acquaintance with washes, and glaz- 
ing, and body color, and the laws of composition. Frances did not 
know how to compose a picture. She said: “Oh, no; I do not 
make it up in my head at all; I only do what I see.” 

“ You mean you don’t formulate rules,” said Maud. “ Of course 
you don’t mean that you’merely imitate, for that is tea-board style; 
and your drawings are quite pretty. I like that little bit of the 
coast.” 

“How well one knows the Riviera,” said Ethel; “everybody 
who goes there has something to show. But I am rather suiprised 
you don't keep to one style. You seem to do a little of everything. 
Don’t you feel that flower- painting rather spoils your hand for the 
larger effects?” 

“ It wants such a very different distribution of light and shade,” 
said the other sister. “ You have to calculate your tones on such a 
different scaler If you were working at South Kensington or any 
other of the good schools — ’ ’ 

“I should not advise her to do that — should you, Maud? — there 
is such a long elementary course. But I suppose you did your free- 
hand and all that in the school-room?” 

Frances did not know how to reply. She put away her little 
sketches with a sense of extreme humiliation. “ Oh, I am afraid I 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 177 

am not fit to talk about it at all,” she said. “ I don’t even know 
what words to use. It has been all imitation, as you say. ’ ’ 

The two young ladies smiled upon her, and reassured her. “You 
must not be discouraged. I am sure you have talent. It only 
wants a little hard work to master the principles; and then you go 
on so much easier afterward,” they said. It puzzled Frances much 
that they did not produce their own sketches, which she thought 
w^ould have been as good as a lesson to her; and it was not till long 
after that it dawned upon her that in this particular Maud and 
Ethel were defective. They knew how to do it, but could not do 
it; whereas, she could do it without knowing how. 

“ How is it, I wonder,” said one of them, changing the subject 
after a little polite pause, which suggested fatigue, “ that Mrs. Win- 
terbourn is not here this year?” 

They looked at her for this information, to the consternation of 
Frances, who did not know how to reply. “ You know I have not 
been long — here,” she said; she had intended to say at home, but 
the effort Was beyond her — “ and I don’t even know who Mrs. Win- 
terbourn is.” 

“Oh!” they both cried; and then for a minute there was nothing 
more. “ You may think it strange of us to speak of it,” said Maud 
at length; “ only, it always seemed so well understood; and we 
have always met her here.” 

“ Oh, she goes everywhere,” cried Ethel. “ There never was a 
word breathed against — Please don’t think that, from anything 
we have said. ’ ’ 

“ On the contrary, mamma always says it is so wise of Lady 
Markham,” said Maud; “so much better that he should always 
meet her here.” 

Frances retired into herself with a confusion which she did not 
know how to account for. She did not in the least know what they 
meant, and yet she felt the color rise in her cheek. She blushed for 
she knew not what; so that Maud and Ethel said to each other, 
afterward: “She is a little hypocrite. She knew just as w^ell as 
either you or I.” 

Frances, however, did not know; and here was another subject 
about which she could not ask information. She carried*away her 
sketch-book to her room with a curious feeling of ignorance and 
foolishness. She did not know anything at all; neither about her 
own surroundings, nor about the little art which she was so fond 
of, in which she had taken just a little pride, as well as so much 
pleasure. She put the sketches away with a few hasty tears, feeling 
troubled and provoked, and as if she could never look at them with 
any satisfaction, or attempt to touch a pencil again. She had never 
thought they were anything great; but to be made to feel so foolish 
in her own little way was hard. Nor was this the only trial to which 
she was exposed. After dinner, drawing aside, which she did with 
a sense of irritation which her conscience condemned, from the 
neighborhood of Ethel and Maud, she fell into the hands of Sir 
Thomas, who also had a way of keeping very clear of these young 
ladies. He came to where Frances was standing in a corner, almost 
out of sight. She had drawn aside one edge of the curtain, and 
was looking out upon the shrubbery and the lawn, which stood out 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


178 

against the clear background of the sea, with a great deal of wist- 
fulness, and perhaps a secret tear or two in her eyes. Here she was 
startled by a sudden voice in her ear. “You are looking out on the 
moonlight,” Sir Thomas said. It took her a moment before she 
could swallow the sob in her throat. 

“ It is very bright; it is a little like — home.” This word escaped 
her in the confusion of her thoughts. 

“You mean the Riviera. Did you like it so much? I should 
have thought — But no doubt, whatever the country is which we 
call home, it seems desirable to us.” 

“ Oh, but you can’t know how beautiful it is,” cried Frances, 
roused from her fit of despondency. “ Perhaps you have never been 
there?” 

“ Oh, yes, often. Does your father like it as well as you do. Miss 
Waring? I should have supposed, for a man — ” 

“Yes,” said Frances, “ I know what you mean. They say there 
is nothing to do. But my father is not a man to want to do any- 
thing. He is fond of books; he reads all day long, and -then comes 
out into the loggia with his cigarette — and talks to me.” 

“That sounds very pleasant,” said Sir Thomas, with a smile, 
taking no notice of the involuntary quaver that had got into the 
girl’s voice. “ But I wonder if perhaps he does not want a little 
variety, a little excitement? Excuse me for saying so. Men, you 
know, are not always so easily contented as the better half of crea- 
tion; and then they are accustomed to larger duties, to more action, 
to public affairs.” 

“ I don’t think papa takes -much interest in all that,” said 
Frances, with an air of authority. “ He has never cared for what 
was going on. The newspapers he sometimes will not open.” 

“ That is a great change. He used to be a hot politician in the 
old days.” 

“ Did you know my father?” she cried, turning upon him with a 
glow of sudden interest. 

“ I knew him very well — ^better than most people. I was one of 
those who felt the deepest regret — ’ ’ 

She stood gazing at him with her face lifted to him with so pro- 
found an- interest and desire to know, that he stopped short, startled 
by the intensity of her look. “Miss Waring,” he said, “ it is a 
very delicate subject to talk to their child upon.” 

‘^Oh, I know it is. I don’t like to ask — and yet it seems as if I 
ought to know.” Frances w^as seized with one of those sudden im- 
pulses of confidence which sometimes make the young so indiscreet. 
If she had known Sir Thomas intimately it would not have occurred 
to her; but as a stranger he seemed safe. “ No one has ever told 
me,” she added in the heat of this sudden overflow, “ neither how 
it was or why it was; except Markham, who says it was his fault.” 

“There were faults on all sides, I think,” said Sir Thomas. 
“ There always are in such cases. No one person is able to carry 
out such a prodigious mistake. You must pardon me if I speak 
plainly. You are the only person whom I can ask about my old 
friend.” 

“ Oh, I like you to speak plainly,” cried Frances. “ Talk to me 
about him; ask me anything you please.” The tears came into her 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


179 


voice, and she put her hands together instinctively. She had been 
feeling very lonely and home- sick, and out of accord with all her 
surroundings. To return even in thought to the old life and its as- 
sociations brought a flood of bitter sweetness to her heart. 

‘'I can see at least,” said Sir Thomas, ” that he has secured a 
most loving champion in his child.” 

This arrested her enthusiasm in a moment. She was too sincere 
to accept such a solution of her own complicated feelings. Was 
she the loving champion which she was so suddenly assumed to be? 
She became vaguely aware that the things which had rushed back 
upon her mind and filled her with longing were not the excellences 
cf her father, but rather the old peace and ease and ignorance of 
her youthful life, which nothing could now restore. She could not 
respond to the confidence of her father’s friend. He had kept her 
in ignorance; he had deceived her; he had not made any attempt to 
clear the perplexities of her difficult path, but left her to find out 
everything, more perhaps than she yet knew. Sir Thomas was a 
little surprised that she made him no reply; but he set it down to 
emotion and agitation, which might well take from so young and 
innocent a girl the possibility of reply. 

” I don’t know whether I am justified in the hope I have been en- 
tertaining ever since you came, ’ ’ he said. “It is very hard that 
your father should be banished from his own country and all nis 
duties by — what was, after all, never a very important cause. There 
has been no unpardonable wrong on either side. He is terribly 
sensitive, you know. And Lady Slarkham — she is a dear friend of 
mine; I have a great affection for her.” 

“ If you please,” said Frances, quickly, “ it is not possible for 
me to listen to any discussion of mamma.” 

“My dear Miss Waring,” he cried, “this is better and better. 
You are then a partisan on both sides?” 

Poor little Frances felt as if she w^ere at least hemmed in on both 
sides and without any way of escape. She looked up in his face 
with an appeal which he did not understand, for how was it possi- 
ble to suppose that she did not know all about a matter which had 
affected her whole life? 

“ Don’t you think,” said Sir Thomas, drawing very close to her, 
stooping over her, “ that if we two were to lay our heads together, 
we might bring things to a better understanding? Constance, to 
whom I have often spoken on the subject, knew only one side — and 
that not the difficult side. Markham was mixed up in it all, and 
could never be impartial. But you know both, and your father best. 
I am sure you are full of sense, as Waring ’s daughter ought to be. 
Don’t you think — ” 

He had taken both Frances’ hands in his enthusiasm, and pressed 
so closely upon her that she had to retreat a step, almost with alarm. 
And he had his back to the light, .shutting her out from all succor, 
as she thought. It was all the girl could do to keep from crying 
out that she knew nothing, that she was more ignorant than any 
one; and when there suddenly came from behind Sir Thomas the 
sound of many voices, without agitation or special meaning, her 
heart gave a bound of relief, as if she had escaped. He gave her 
hands a vehement pressure and let them drop; and then Claude 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


180 

Ramsay’s voice of gentle pathos came in. “Are you not afraid, 
Miss Waring, of the draught? There must be some door or window 
open. It is enough to blow one away. ’ ’ 

“You look like a couple of conspirators,” said Markham. 
“ Fan, your little eyes are blinking like an owl’s. Come back, my 
dear, into the light.” 

“ No,” said Claude; “ the light is perfect. I never can under- 
stand why people should want so much light only to talk by. Will 
you sit here. Miss Waring? Here is a corner out of the draught. 
I want to say something more about Bordighera — one other little 
renseignement, and then I shall not require to trouble you any 
more.” 

Frances looked at Markham for help, but he did not interfere. 
He looked a little grave, she thought; but he took Sir Thomas by 
the arm, and presently led him away. She was too shy to refuse 
on her own account Claude’s demand, and sat down reluctantly on 
the sofa, where he placed himself at her side. 

“Your sister,” he said, “never had much sympathy with me 
about draughts. She used to think it ridiculous to take so much 
care. But my doctrine always is, take care beforehand, and then 
you don’t need to trouble yourself after. Don’t you think I am 
right?” 

She understood very well how Constance would receive his little 
speeches. In the agitation in which she was, gleams of perception 
coming through the chaos, sudden visions of Constance, who had 
been swept out of her mind by the progress of events, and of her 
father, whom her late companion had been talking' about — as if it 
would be so easy to induce him to change all his ways, and do what 
other people wished! — came back to her mind. They seemed to 
stand before her there, both appearing out of the mists, both so 
completely aware of what they wanted to do — so little likely to be 
persuaded into some one else’s mode of thought. 

“ I think Constance and you were not at all likely to think the 
same,” she said. 

Ramsay looked at her with a glance which for him was hasty 
and almost excited. “ No?” he said in an interrogative tone. 
“ What makes you think so? Perhaps when one comes to consider, 
you are right. She was always so well and strong. You and I, 
perhaps, do you think, are more alike?” 

“ No,” said Frances, very decidedly. “lam much stronger than 
Constance. She might have some patience with — with — what was 
fanciful; but I should have none.” 

“ With what was fanciful? Then you think I am fanciful?” 
said Claude, raising himself up from his feeble attitude. He laughed 
a little, quite undisturbed in temper by tliis reproach. “I wish 
other people thought so; I wish they would let me stay comfortably 
at home, and do what everybody does. But, Miss Waring, you are 
not so sympathetic as I thought.” 

“lam afraid I am not sympathetic,” said Frances, feeling much 
ashamed of herself. “ Oh, Mr. Ramsay, forgive me; I did not 
mean to say anything so disagreeable.” 

“Never mind,” said Claude. “When people don’t know me 
they often think so. I am sorry, because I tliought perhaps you 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


181 

and I might agree better. But very likely it was a mistake. Are 
you feeling the draught again? It is astonishing how a draught 
will creep round, when you think you are quite out of the way of 
it. If you feel it you must not run the risk of a cold, out of consid- 
eration for me.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

‘ ‘ She thinks I am fanciful, ’ ’ he said. 

He was sitting with Lady Markham in the room which was her 
special sanctuary. She did not call it her boudoir; she was not at 
all inclined to bonder; but it answered to that retirement in com- 
mon parlance. Those who wanted to see her alone, to confide in 
her, as many people did, knocked at the door of this room. It 
opened with a large window upon the lawn, and looked down 
through a carefully kept opening upon the sea. Amid all the little 
luxuries appropriate to my lady’s chamber, you could see the big- 
gest ships in the world pass across the gleaming foreground, shut 
in between two massifs of laurel, making a delightful confusion of 
the great and the small, which was specially pleasant to her. She 
sat, however, with her back to this pleasant prospect, holding up a 
screen, to shade her delicate cheek from the bright little fire, which, 
though April was far advanced, was still thought necessary so near 
the sea. Claude had thrown himself into another chair in front of 
the fire-place. No warmth was ever too much for him. There was 
the usual pathos in his tone, but a faint consciousness of something 
amusing was in his face. 

“Did she?” said Lady Markham, with a laugh. “ The little 
impertinent! But you know, my dear boy, that is what I have al- 
ways said.” 

“ Yes — it is quite true. You healthy people, you are always of 
opinion that one can get over it if one makes the effort; and there 
is no way of proving the contrary but by dying, which is a strong 
step. ” 

“ A very strong step — one, I hope, that you will not think of tak- 
ing. They are both very sincere, my girls, though in a different 
way. They mean what they say; and yet they do not mean it, 
Claude. Thai is, it is quite true; but does not affect their regard 
for you, which, I am sure, without implying any deeper feeling, is 
strong. ’ ’ 

He shook his head a little. “Dear Lady Markham, ” he said, 
“ you know if I am to marry, I want, above all things, to marry a 
daughter of yours.” 

“ Dear boy!” she said, with a look full of tender meaning. 

“ You have always been so good to me, since ever I can remem- 
ber. But what am I to do if they — object? Constance — has run 
away from me, people say; run away — to escape m^.'” His voice 
took so tragically complaining a tone that Lady Markham bit her lip 
and held her screen higher to conceal her smile. Next moment, 
however, she turned upon him with a perfectly grave and troubled 
face. 

“ Dear Claude!” she cried, “ what an injustice to poor Con. I 
thought 1 had explained all that to you. You have known all 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


182 

along the painful position I am in with their father, and you know 
how impulsive she is. And then, Markham — Alas,” she con- 
tinued, with a sigh, “my position is very complicated, Claude. 
Markham is the best son that ever was; but you know I have to pay 
a great deal for it.” 

“ Ah!” said Claude; “ Nelly Winterbourn and all that,” with a 
good many sage nods of his head. 

“Not only Nelly Winterbourn— there is no harm in her, that I 
know — but he has a great influence with the girls. It was he who 
put it into Constance’s head to go to her father. I am quite sure it 
was. He put it before her that it was her duty.” 

“ O— oh!” Claude made this very English comment with the 
doubtful tone which it expresses; and added, “ Her duty!” with a 
very unconvinced air. 

“ He did so, I know. And she was so fond of adventure and 
change. I agreed with him partly afterward that it was the best 
thing that could happen to her. She is finding out by experience 
what banishment from society and from all that makes life pleasant 
is. I have no doubt she will Come back— in a very different frame 
of mind.” 

Claude did not respond, as perhaps Lady Markham expected him 
to do. He sat and dandled his leg before the fire, not looking at 
her. After some time he said in a reflective way : ‘ ‘ Whoever I 
marry she will have to resign herself to banishment, as you call it 
— that has been always understood. A warm climate in winter — 
and to be ready to start at any pioment.” 

“ That is always understood — till you get stronger,” said Lady 
Markham in the gentlest tone. “ But ^u know I have always ex- 
pected that you would get stronger. Remember, you have been 
kept at home all this year — and you are better; at all events, you 
have not suffered.” 

“ Had I been sent away Constance would have remained at 
home,” he said. “lam not speaking out of irritation, but only to 
understand it fully. It is not as if I were finding fault with Con- 
stance; but you see for yourself she could not stand me all the year 
round. A fellow who has always to be thinking about the ther- 
mometer is tiying. ’ ’ 

“My dear boy,” said Lady Markham, “everything is trying. 
The thermometer is much less offensive than most things that men 
care for. Girls are brought up in that fastidious way; you all like 
them to be so, and to think they have refined tastes, and so forth; 
and then you are surprised when you find they have a little diffi- 
culty — Constance was only fanciful, that was all — impatient.” 

“Fanciful,” he repeated. “That was what the little one said. 
I wish she were fanciful, and not so horribly well and strong.” 

“ My dear Claude,” said Lady Markham, quickly, ” you would 
not like that at all! A delicate wife is the most dreadful thing — one 
that you would always have to be considering; who could not per- 
haps go to the places that suited you; who would not be able to go 
out with you when you wanted her. I don’t insist upon a daughter 
of mine; but not that, not that, for your own sake, my dear boy!” 

“ I believe you are right,” he said, with a look of conviction. 
“ Then I suppose the only thing to be done is to wait for a little 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 183 

and see how things turn out. There is no hurry about it, you 
know.” 

‘‘ Oh, no hurry!” she said, with uneasy assent. “ That is, if you 
are not in a hurry,” she added after a pause. 

‘‘ No, I don’t think so. I am rather enjoying myself, I think. It 
always does one good,” he said, getting up slowly, ” to come and 
have it out with you. ’ ’ 

Lady Markham said ” Dear boy!” once more, and gave him her 
hand, which he kissed; and then his audience was over. He went 
away; and she turned round to her writing-table to the inevitable 
correspondence. There was a little cloud upon her forehead so 
long as she was alone; but when another knock came at the door it 
cleared by magic as she said, “Come in.” This time it was Sir 
Thomas who appeared. He was a tall man, with gray hair, and 
had the air of being very carefully brushed and pressed. He came 
in, and seated himself where Claude had been, but pushed back the 
chair from the fire. 

” Don’t you think,” he said, ” that you keep your room a little 
too warm?” 

” Claude complained that it was cold — it is diflicult to please 
everytxidy. ” 

“Oh, Claude. I have come to speak to you, dear Lady Mark- 
ham, on a very different subject. I was talking to Frances last 
night. ’ ’ 

“ So I perceived. And what do you think of my little girl?” 

“You know,” he said, with some solemnity, “ the hopes I have 
always entertained that some time or other our dear Waring might 
be brought among us once more. ’ ’ 

“ I have always told you,” said Lady Markham, “ that no diffi- 
culties should be raised by me.” 

“ You were always everything that is good and kind,” said Sir 
Thomas. “ I was talking to his dear little daughter last night. She 
reminds me very much of Waring, Lady Markham.” 

“ That is odd; for everybody tells me — and indeed I can see it 
myself — that she is like me'” 

“ She is very like you; still, she reminds me of her father more 
than I can say. I do think we have in her the instrument — the 
very instrument that is wanted. If he is ever to be brought back 
again — ” 

“ Which I doubt,” she said, shaking her head. 

“Don’t let us doubt. With perseverance, everything is to be 
hoped; and here we have in our very hands what I have always 
looked for — some one devoted to him and very fond of you.” 

“ Is she very fond of me?” said Lady Markham. Her face soft- 
ened — a little moisture crept into her eyes. “ Ah, Sir Thomas, I 
wonder if that is true. She was very much moved by the idea of 
her mother — a relation she had never known. She expected I don’t 
know what, but more, I am sure, than she has found me. Oh, don’t 
say anything. I am scarcely surprised; I am not at all displeased: 
To come with your heart full of an ideal, and to find an ordinary 
woman— a woman in society!” The moisture enlarged in Lady 
Markham’s eyes, not tears, but yet a liquid naist that gave them 
pathos. She shook her head, looking at him with a smile. 


184 . A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF, 

“We need not argue the question/’ said Sir Thomas; “for I 
know she is very fond of you. You sliould have heard her stop me, 
when she thought I was going to criticise you. Of course, had she 
known me better, she would liave known how impossible that was.” 

Lady Markham did not say ” Dear Sir Thomas!” as she had said 
“Dear boy!” but her look was the same as that which she had 
tuiTKid upon Claude. She was in no doubt as to what his account 
of her would be. 

“ She can persuade him, if anybody can,” he said. “ I think I 
shall go and see him as soon as 1 can get away — if you do not ob- 
ject. To bring our dear Waring back, to see you two together again, 
who have always been the objects of my warmest admiration — ’ ’ 

“You are too kind. You have always had a higher opinion of 
me than I deserve,” she said. “ One can only be grateful. One 
can not try to persuade you that you are mistaken. As for my — 
husband ’ ’ — there was the slightest momentary pause before she 
said the name — “ I fear you will never get him to think so well of 
me as you do. It is a great misfortune; but still it sometimes hap- 
pens that other people think more of a woman than — her very own.” 

“You must not say that. Waring adored you.” 

She shook her head again. “He had a great admiration. ” she 
said, ‘ for a woman to whom he gave my name. But he discovered 
that it was a mistake; and for me in my own person he had no par- 
ticular feeling. Think a little whether you are doing wisely. If 
you should succeed in bringing us two together again — ” 

“ What then?” 

She did not say any more; lier face grew pale — paled, it were 
better to say, as by a sudden touch or breath. When such a tie as 
marriage is severed, if bjr death, if by any other separation, it is 
not a light thing to renew it again. The thought of that possibility 
— which yet was not a possibility — suddenly realized, sent the blood 
back to Lady Markham’s heart. It was not that she was unforgiv- 
ing, or even that she had not a certain remainder of love for her 
husband. But to resume those habits of close companionship after 
so many years — to give up her own individuality, in part at least, 
and live a dual life — this thought startled her. She Lad said that 
she would put no difficulties in the way. But then she had not 
thought of all that was involved. 

The next visitor who interrupted her retirement came in without 
the preliminary of knocking. It was Markham who thus made his 
appearance, presenting himself to the full daylight in his light 
clothes and colorless aspect; not very well dressed, a complete con- 
trast to the beautiful if sickly youth of her first visitor, and the size 
and vigor of the other. Markham had neither beauty nor vigor. 
Even the usual keenness and humorous look had gone out of his 
face. He held a letter in his hand. He did not, like the others, put 
himself into the chair where Lady Markham, herself turned from 
the light, could mark every change of countenance in her inter- 
locutor. He went up to the fire with the ease of the master of the 
house, and stood in front of it as an Englishman loves to do. But 
he was not quite at his ease on this occasion. He said nothing until 
he had assumed this place, and even stood for a whole minute or 
more silent before he found his voice. Lady Maikham had turned 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


185 


her chair toward him at once, and sat with her head raised and ex- 
pectant, watching him. For with Markham, never very reticent of 
his words, this prolonged pause seemed to mean that there was 
something important to say. But it did not appear when he spoke. 
He put the forefinger of one hand on the letter he held in the other. 
“ I have heard from the Winterbourns,” he said. “ They are com- 
ing to-morrow.” 

Lady Markham made the usual little exclamation “ Oh!” — faintly 
breathed with the slightest catch, as if it might have meant more. 
Then, after a moment: “ Very well, Markham; they can have their 
usual rooms,” she said. 

Again there was a little pause. Then, “ He is not very well,” 
said Markham. 

'* Oh! that is a pity,” she replied with very little concern. 

” That is not strong enough. I believe he is rather ill. They are 
leaving the Crosslands sooner than they intended because there’s no 
doctor there. ” 

” Then it is a good thing,” said Lady Markham, “ that there is 
such a good doctor here. We are so healthy a party, he is quite 
thrown away on us.” 

Markham did not find that his mother divined what he wanted to 
say with her usual promptitude. “ I am afraid Winterbourn is in 
a bad way,” he said at length, moving uneasily from one foot to 
the other, and avoiding her eye. 

” Do you mean that there is anything serious — dangerous? Good 
heavens!” cried Lady Markham, now fully roused, “ I hope she is 
not going to bring that man to die here.” 

“ That’s just what 1 have been thinking. It would be decidedly 
awkward. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, awkward is not the word,” cried Lady Markham, with a 
sudden vision of all the inconveniences; her pretty house turned 
upside down — though it was not hers, but his — a stop put to 
everything — the flight c»f her guests in every direction — herself de- 
tained and separated from all her social duties. “ You take it very 
coolly,” she said. “You must write and say it is impossible in the 
circumstances. ’ ’ 

“Can’t,” said Markham. “They must have started by this 
time. They are to travel slowly — to husband his strength.” 

“To husband — Telegraph, then! Good heavens, Markham, 
don’t you see what a dreadful nuisance — how impossible in every 
point of view.” 

“Come,” he said, with a return of his more familiar tone. 
“ There’s no evidence that he means to die here. I dare say he 
won't, if he can help it, poor beggar! The telegraph is as impossi- 
ble as the post. We are in for it, mammy. Let’s hope he’ll pull 
through. ’ ’ 

“ And if he doesn’t, Markham?” 

“That will be — more awkward still,” he said. Markham was 
not himself; he shuffled from one foot to another, and looked 
straight before him, never glancing aside with those keen looks of 
understanding which made his insignificant countenance interest- 
ing. His mother was, what mothers too seldom are, his most inti- 
mate friend; but he did not meet her eye. His hands were thrust 


186 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 

into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. At last a faint and 
doubtful gleam broke over his face. He burst into a sudden 
chuckle, one of those hoarse brief notes of laughter which were pe- 
culiar to him. “ By Jove! it would be poetic justice, ” he said. 

Lady Markham showed no inclination to laughter. “ Is there 
nothing we can do?” she cried. 

“Think of something else,” said Markham, with a sudden re- 
covery. “ I always find that the best thing to do — for the moment. 
What was Claude saying to you — and t’other man?” 

“ Claudel I don’t know what he was saying. News like this is 
enough to drive everything else out of one’s head. He is wavering 
between Con and Frances.” 

“ Mother, I told you. Frances will have nothing to say to him.” 

“ Frances — will obey the leading of events, I hope.” 

“ Poor little Fan! I don’t think she will, though. That child 
has a great deal in her. She shows her parentage.” 

“ Sir Thomas says she reminds him much of her — father,” Lady 
Markham said, with a faint smile. 

“ There is something of Waring, too,” said her son, nodding his 
head. 

This seemed to jar upon the mother. She changed color a little; 
and then added, her smile growing more constrained : “ He thinks 
she may be a powerful instrument in — changing his mind — bring- 
ing him, after all these years, back ” — here she paused a little, as if 
seeking for a phrase; then added, her smile growing less and less 
pleasant — “ to his duty.” " 

Then Markham for the first time looked at her. He had been 
paying but partial attention up to this moment, his mind beiiifi: en- 
grossed with difiiculties of his own; but he awoke at this suggestion, 
and looked at her with something of his usual keenness, but with a 
gravity not at all usual. And she met his eye with an awakening 
in hers which was still more remarkable. For a moment they thus 
contemplated each other, not like mother and son, nor like tlie dear 
and close friends they were, but like two antagonists suddenly per- 
ceiving, on either side, the coming conflict. For almost the first 
time there woke in Lady Markham’s mind a consciousness that it 
was possible her son, who had been always her champion, her de- 
fender, her companion, might wish her out of his way. She looked 
at him with a rising color, with all her nerves thrilling, and her 
whole soul on the alert for his next words. These were words 
which he would have preferred not to speak; but they seemed to be 
forced from his lips against his will, though even as he said them 
he explained to himself that they had been in his mind to say be! ore 
he knew — before the dilemma that might occur had seemed possible. 

“ Yes?” he said. “ I understand what he means. I — even I — 
had been thinking that something of the sort — might be a good 
thing.” 

She clasped her hands with a quick passionate movement. “ Has 
it come to this — in a moment — without warning?” she cried. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


187 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The Winterbourns came next day; he to the best room in the 
house, a temperature carefully kept up to sixty-five degrees, and 
the daily attentions of the excellent doctor, who. Lady Markham 
declared, was thrown away upon her healthy household, Mr, Win- 
terbourn was a man of fifty, a confirmed invalid, who traveled with 
a whole paraphernalia of medicaments, and a servant who was a 
trained nurse, and very skillful in all the lower branches of the 
medical craft, Mrs, Winterbourn, however, was not like this. She 
was young, pretty, lively, fond of what she called “ fun,” and by 
no means bound to her husband’s sick-room. Everybody said she 
was very kind to him. She never refused to go to him when he 
wanted her. Of her own accord, as part of her usual routine, she 
would go into his room three or even four times a day to see if she 
could do anything. She sat with him always while Roberts, the 
man-nurse, had his dinner. What more could a woman do? She 
had indeed, it was understood, married him against her will; but 
that is an accident not to be avoided, and she had always been a 
model of propriety. They were asked everywhere, which, consider- 
ing how little adapted he was for society, was nothing less than the 
highest proof of how much she was thought of; and the most irre- 
proachable matrons did not hesitate to invite Lord Markham to 
meet the Winterbourns, It was a wonderful, quite an ideal friend- 
ship, everybody said. And it was such a comfort to both of them! 
For Markham, considering the devotion he had always shown to 
his mother, would probably find it very inconvenient to marry, 
which is the only thing which makes friendship between a man and 
a woman difficult, A woman does not like her devoted friend to 
marry : that is the worst of those delicate relationships, and it is 
the point upon which they generally come to shipwreck in the end. 
As a matter of course, any other harm of a grosser kind was not so 
much as thought of by any one who knew them. There were peo- 
ple, however, who asked themselves and each other, as a fine prob- 
lem, one of tliose cases of complication which it pleases the human 
intellect to resolve, what would happen if Winterbourn died? a 
thing which he was continually threatening to do. It had been at 
one tim^ quite a favorite subject of speculation in society. Some 
said that it would not suit Markham at all, that he would get out of 
it somehow; some, that there would be no escape for him; some, 
that with such a fine jointure as Nelly would have, it would set the 
little man up, if he could give up his “ ways,” Markliam had not 
a very good reputation, though everybody knew that he was the 
best son in the world. He played, it was said, more and other- 
wise than a man of his position ought to play. He was often amus- 
ing, and always nice to women, so that society never in the least 
broke with him, and he had champions everywhere. But the mere 
fact that he required champions was a proof that all was not ex- 
actly as it ought to be. He was a man with a great many “ ways,” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


188 

which of course it is natural to suppose would be bad ways, 
though, except in the matter of play, no one knew very well what 
th^ were. 

Winterboum, however, had never been so bad as he was on this 
occasion, when he was almost lifted out of the carriage and carried 
to his room, his very host being allowed no speech of him till next 
morning, after he was supposed to have got over the fatigue of the 
journey. The doctor, when he was summoned, shook his head and 
looked very grave; and it may be imagined what talks went on 
among the guests when no one of the family was present to hear. 
These talks were sometimes carried on before Frances, who was 
scarcely realized as the daughter of the house. Even Claude Ram- 
say forgot his own pressing concerns in consideration of the urgent 
question of the moment, and Sir Thomas ceased to think of War 
ing. Frances gleaned from what she heard that they were all pre- 
paring for flight. ‘ ‘ Of course, in case anything dreadful happens, 
dear Lady Markham,'’ they said, “ will no doubt go too.” 

” What a funny thing,” said one of the Miss Montagues, “if it 
should happen in this house.” 

“ Funny, Laural You mean dreadful,” cried her mother. “ Do 
choose your words a little better. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, you know what I mean, mamma!” cried the young lady. 

“You must think it dreadful indeed,” said Mrs. Montague, ad- 
dressing Frances, “ that we should discuss such a sad thing in this 
wav. Of course, we are all very sorry for poor Mr. Winterboum; 
and if he had been ill and dying in his own house — But one’s mind 
is occupied at present by the great inconvenience — oh, more than 
that — the horror and — and embarrassment to your dear mother. ’ ’ 

“ All that,” said Sir Thomas with a certain solemnity. Perhaps 
it was the air of unusual gravity with which he uttered these two 
words which raised the smallest momentary titter — no, not so much 
as a titter — a faintly audible smile, if such an expression may he 
used — chiefly among the young ladies, who had perhaps a clearer 
realization of the kind of embarrassment that was meant than was 
expected of them. But Frances had no clew whatever to it. She 
replied warmly: 

‘ ‘ My mother will not think of the inconvenience. It is surely 
those who are in such trouble themselves who are the only people — 
to think about. Poor Mrs. Winterboum — ” 

“ Who is it that is speaking of me in such a kind voice?” said 
the sick man’s wife. x 

She had just come into the room; and she was very well aware 
that she was being discussed by everybody about — herself and her 
circumstances, and all those contingencies which were, in spite of 
herself, beginning to stir her own mind, as they had already done 
the minds of all around. That is one thing which in any crisis peo- 
ple in society may be always sure of, that their circumstances are 
being fully talked over by their friends. 

“ I hope we have all kind 'voices when we speak of you, my dear 
Nelly. This one was Prances Waring, our new little friend here.” 

“ Ah, that explains, ” said Mrs. Winterboum;. and she went on, 
without saying more, to the conservatory, which opened from the 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 189 

drawinff-room in which the party was seated. They were silenced, 
though they had not been saying anything very bad of her. The 
sudden appearance of the person discussed always does make a 
certain impression. The gentlemen of the group dispersed, the 
ladies began to talk of something else. Frances, very shy, yet bur- 
dened with a great desire to say or do something toward the con- 
solation of those who were, as she had said, in such trouble, went 
after Mrs. Winterbourn. She had seated herself where the big palms 
and other exotic foliage were thickest, out of sight of the drawing- 
room, close to the open doorway that led to the lawn and the sea. 
Frances was a little surprised that the wife of a man who was 
thought to be dying should leave his bedside at all; but she reflected 
that to prevent breaking down, and thus being no longer of any 
use to the patient, it was the duty of every nurse to take a certain 
amount of rest and fresh air. She felt, however, more and more 
timid as she approached. Mrs. Winterbourn had not the air of a 
nurse. She was dressed in her usual way, with her usual orna- 
ments — not too much, but yet enough to make a tinkle, had she 
been at the side of a sick person, and possibly to have disturbed 
him. Two or three bracelets on a pretty arm are very pretty 
things; but they are not very suitable for a sick-nurse. She was 
sitting with a book in one hand, leaning her head upon the other, 
evidently not reading, evidently very serious. Frances was en- 
couraged by the downcast face. 

“ I hope you will not think me very bold,” she said, the other 
starting and turning round at the sound of her voice. ” I wanted to 
ask if I could help you in any way. I am very good for keeping 
awake, and I could get you what you wanted. Oh, I don’t mean 
that I am good enough to be trusted as nurse; but if I might sit up 
with you — in the next room — to get you what you want.” 

“ What do you mean, child?” the young woman said in a quick, 
startled, half-offended voice. She was not very much older than 
Frances, but her experiences had been very different. She thought 
offense was meant. Lady IVIarkham had always been kind to her, 
which was, she felt, somewhat to Lady Markham’s own advantage, 
for Nelly knew that Markham would never marry so long as her 
influence lasted, and this was for his mother’s good. But now it 
was very possible that Lady Markham was trembling, and had put 
her little daughter forward to give a sly stroke. Her tone softened, 
however, as she looked up in Frances’ face. It was, perhaps, only 
that the girl was a little simpleton, and meant what she said. ‘‘You 
think I sit up at night,” she said. ‘‘ Oh, no. I should be of no 
use. Mr. Winterbourn has his own servant, who knows exactly 
what to do; and the doctor is to send a nurse to let Koberts get a 
little rest. It is very good of you. Nursing is quite the sort of 
thing people go in for now, isnT it? But, unfortunately, poor Mr. 
Winterbourn can’t bear amateurs, and I should do no good.” 

She gave Frances a bright smile as she said this, and turned again 
toward the scene outside, opening her book at the same time, which 
was like a dismissal. But at that moment, to the great surprise of 
Frances, Markham appeared without, strolling toward the open door. 
He came in when he saw her, nodding to her with a look wliich 
Stopped her as slie was about to turn away. 


190 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“I am glad you are making friends with my little sister/' he 
said. “ How is Winterbourn now?” 

“ I wish everybody would not ask me every two minutes how he 
is now,” cried the young wife. “ He doesn’t change from one half- 
hour to another. Oh, impatient; yes, I am impatient. I am half 
out of my senses, what with one thing and another; and here is your 
sister — your sister — asking to help me to nurse him! That was all 
that was wanting, I think to drive me quite mad!” 

“lam sure little Fan never thought she would produce such a 
terrible result. Be reasonable, Nelly.” 

“ Don’t call me Nelly, sir: and don’t tell me to be reasonable. 
Don’t you know how they are all talking, those horrible people? 
Oh, why, why did I bring him here?” 

“ Whatever was the reason, it can’t be undone now,” said Mark- 
ham. “ Come, Nelly! This is nothing but nerves, you know. You 
can be yourself when you please.” 

“ Do you know why he talks to me like that before you?” said 
Mrs. Winterbourn, suddenly turning upon Frances. “ It is because 
he tliinlts things are coming to a crisis, and that I shall be compelled — 
Here the hasty creature came to a pause and stared suddenly round 
her. “ Oh, I don’t know what I am saying, Geoff! They are all 
talking, talking in every corner about you and me.” 

“ Run away. Fan,” said her brother. “ Mrs. Winterbourn, you 
see, is not well. The best thing for her is to be left in quiet. Run 
away.” 

“ It is you who ought to go away, Markham, and leave her to 
me.” 

“Oh!” said Markham, with a gleam of amusement, “ you set up 
for that too. Fan! But I know better how to take care of Nelly 
than you do. Run away. ” 

The consternation with which Frances obeyed this request it 
would be difficult to describe. She had not understood the talk in 
the drawing-room, and she did not understand this. But it gave her 
ideas a strange shock. A woman whose husband was dying, and 
who was away from him — who called Markham by his Christian 
name, and apparently preferred his ministrations to her own. She 
would not go back as she came, to afford the ladies in the drawing- 
room a new subject for their comments, but went out instead by 
the open door, not thinking that the only path by which she could 
return indoors led past the window of her mother’s room, which 
opened on the lawn round the angle of the house. Lady Markham 
was standing there looking out as Frances came in sight. She 
knocked upon the window to call her daughter’s attention, and 
opening it hurriedly, called her in. “ Have you seen Markham?” 
she said, almost before Frances could hear. 

“ I have left him, ^his moment.” 

“ Tou have left him. Is he alone, then? Who is with him? Is 
Nelly Winterbourn there?” 

Frances could not tell why it was that she disliked to answer. 
She made a little assenting movement of her head. 

“ It ought not to be,” cried Lady Markham — “not at this mo- 
ment— at any other time, if they like, but not now. Don’t you see 
the difference? Before, nothing was possible. Now — when at any 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


191 

moment., she may he a free woman, and Markham — Don’t you 
see the difference? They should not, they should not, be together 
now!” 

Frances stood before her mother feeling that a claim was made 
upon her which she did not even understand, and a helplessness 
which was altogether foreign to her ordinary sensations. She did 
not understand, nor wish to understand — it was odious to her to 
think even what it could mean. And what could she do? Lady 
Markham was agitated and excited — not able to control herself. 

‘‘ For I have just seen the doctor,” she cried, ‘‘ and he says that 
it is a question not even of days, but of hours. Good heavens, 
child, only think of it — that such a thing should happen here; and 
that Marl^am, Markham! should have to manage everything. Oh, 
it is indecent — there is no other word for it. Go and call him to 
me. We must get him to go away.” 

“ Mamma, ” said Frances, “ how can I go back? He told me to 
go and leave them.” 

” He is a fool,” cried Lady Markham, stamping her foot. ” He 
does not see how he is committing himself; he does not mind. Oh, 
what does it matter what he said to you! Run at once and bring 
him to me. I have something urgent to tell him. Say — oh, say 
anything! If Constance had been here, she would have known.” 

Frances was very sensible to the arrow thus flung at her in haste, 
without thought. She was so stung by it, that she turned hastily 
to do her mother’s commission at all costs. But before she had 
taken half-a-dozen steps, Markham himself appeared, coming lei- 
surely, easily, with his usual composure, round the corner. ” What’s 
wrong with you, little un?” he asked. ” You don’t mind what I 
said to you. Fan; 1 couldn’t help it, my dear.” 

” It isn’t that, Markham. It is — mamma.” 

And then Lady Markham, too much excited to wait, came out to 
join them. ” Do you know the state of affairs, Markham? Does 
she know? I want you to go off instantiy without losing a mo- 
ment, to Southampton, to fetch Dr. Howard. Quick! There is 
just time to get the boat.” 

” Dr. Howard? What is wrong with the man here?” 

“ He is afraid of the responsibility — at least I am, Markham. 
Think — in your house! Oh, yes, my dear, go without delay.” 

Markham paused, and looked at her with his keen little eyes. 
” Mother, why don’t you say at once you want to get me out of the 
way.” 

” I do. I don’t deny it, Marldiam. But this too. We ought to 
have another opinion. Do, for any favor, what I ask you, dear; 
oh, do it! Oh, yes, I would rather you sent him here, and did not 
come back with him. But come back, if you must; only, go, go 
now.” 

“You think he will be — dead before I could get back. I will 
telegraph for Dr. Howard, mother; but I will not go away.” 

” You can do no good, Markham — except to make people talk. 
Oh, for mercy’s sake, whatever you may do afterward, go now.” 

” I will go and telegraph — with pleasure,” he said. 

Lady Markham turned and took Frances’ arm, as he left them. 
” I th ink I must give in now altogether,” she cried. ” All is going 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


192 

wrong with me. First Con, and then my boy. For now I see 
what will happen. And you don’t know, you can’t think what 
Markham has been to me. Oh, he has been everything to mel 
And now — I know what will happen now.” 

“Mamma,” said Frances, trembling. She wanted to say that 
little as she herself was, she was one who would never forsake her 
mother. But she was so conscious that Lady Markham’s thoughts 
went over her head and took no note of her, that the words were 
stifled on her lips. “ He said to me once that he could never — leave 
you,” she said, faltering, though it was not what she meant to say. 

“ He said to you once — ? Then he has been thinking of it; he 
has been discussing the question?” Lady Markham said with bit- 
terness. She leaned heavily upon Frances’ arm, but not with any 
tender appreciation of the girl’s wistful desire to comfort her. 
“ That means,” she said, “ that I can never desert him. I must go 
now and get rid of all this excitement, and put on a composed face, 
and tell the people that they may go away if they like. It will be 
the right thing for them to go away. But I can’t stay here with 
death in the house, and take a motherly care of — of that girl, 
whom I never trusted — whom Markliam — And she will marry 
him within the year, I know it.” 

Frances made a little outcry of horror, being greatly disturbed — 
“ Oh, no, no!” without any meaning, for she indeed knew nothing. 

“ No! How can you say No? when you are quite in ignorance. 
I can’t tell you what Markham would wish — to be let alone, most 
likely, if they would let him alone. But she will do it. She always 
was headstrong; and now she will be rich. Oh, what a thing it is 
altogether — like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Who could have 
imagined, when we came down here so tranquilly, with nothing 
unusual — If I thought of any change at all, it was perhaps that 
Claude — whom, by the way, you must not be rude to, Frances — 
that Claude might perhaps — And now, here is everything un- 
settled, and my life turned upside down.” 

What did she hope that Claude would have done? Frances’ 
brain was all perplexed. She had plunged into a sudden sea of 
troubles, without knowing even what the wild elements were that 
lashed the placid waters into fury and made the sky dark all aroun d. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

The crisis, however, was averted — “ mercifully,” as Lady Mark- 
ham said. Dr. Howard from Southampton — whom she had thought 
of only by chance, on the spur of the moment, as a way of getting 
rid of Markham — produced some new lights; and in reality was so 
successful with the invalid, that he rallied, and it became possible 
to remove him by slow stages to his own house, to die there, which 
he did in due course, but some time after, and decorously, in the 
right way and place. Frances felt herself like a spectator at a play 
during all this strange interval, looking on at the third act of a 
tragedy, which somehow had got involved in a drawing-room com- 
edy, with scenes all ernating, and throwing a kind of wretched re- 
flection of their poor humor upon the tableaus of the darker drama. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


193 


She thought that she never should forget the countenance of Nelly 
Winterbourn as she took her seat beside her husband in the invalid 
carriage in which he was conveyed away, and turned to wave a 
farewell to the little group which had assembled to watch the de- 
parture. Her face was quivering with a sort of despairing im- 
patience, wretchedness, self-pity, the miserable anticipations of a 
living creature tied to one who was dead — nerves and temper and 
every part of her being wrought to a feverish excitement, made 
half delirious by the prospect, the possibility of escape, A wretched 
sort of spasmodic smile was upon her lips as she waved her hand to 
the spectators — those spectators all on the watch to read her coun 
tenance, who, she knew, were as well aware of the position as her 
self. Frances was learning the lesson thus set practically before 
her with applications of her own. She knew now to a great extent 
what it all meant, and why Markham disappeared as soon as the 
carriage drove away; while her mother, with an aspect of intense 
relief, returned to her guests. “ I feel as if I could breathe again,” 
Lady Markham said. ‘‘Not that I should have grudged anything 
I could do for poor dear Nelly; but there is something so terrible in 
a death in one’s house.” 

” I quite enter into your feelings, dear — oh, quite!” said Mrs. 
Montague; ‘‘ most painful, and most embarrassing besides.” 

‘‘Oh, as for that,” said Lady Markham. ‘‘It would have been 
indeed a great annoyance and vexation to break up our pleasant 
party, and put out all your plans. But one has to submit in such 
cases. However, I am most thankful it has not come to that. Poor 
Mr. Winterbourn may last yet — for months, Dr. Howard says.” 

‘‘ Dear me; do you think that is to be desked?’ said the other; 

‘‘ for poor Nelly’s sake.” 

‘‘ Poor Nelly!” said the young ladies. ‘‘ Only fancy, months! 
What a terrible fate!” 

‘ ‘ And yet it was supposed to be a great match for her, a penni- 
less girl!” 

‘‘ It was a great match. ” said Lady Markham composedly. “ And 
dear Nelly has always behaved so well. She is an example to many 
women that have much less to put up with than she has. Frances, 
will you see about the lawn-tennis? I am sure you want to shake 
off the impression, you poor girls, who have been so good.” 

‘‘Oh, dear Lady Markham, you don’t suppose we could have 
gone on laughing and making a noise while there was such anxiety 
in the House. But we shall like a game, now that there is no im- 
propriety — ’ ’ 

‘‘ And. we are all so glad,” said the mother, ‘‘ that there was no 
occasion for turning out! for our visits are so dove-tailed, I don’t 
know where we should have gone — and our house in the hands of 
the workmen. I, for one, am very thankful that poor Mr. Winter- 
bourn has a little longer to live.” 

Thus, after this singular episode, the ordinary life of the house- 
hold was resumed; and though the name of poor Nelly recurred at 
intervals for a day or two, there were many things that were of 
more importance — a great garden-party, for instance, for which, 
fortunately. Lady Markham had not cancelled the invitations — a 
yachting expedition, various other pleasant things. The comments 


JL HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


194 

of the company were diverted to Claude, who, finding Frances 
more easily convinced than the others that draughts were to be 
carefully avoided, sought her out on most occasions, notwithstand- 
ing her plain-speaking about his fancifuiness. 

^‘Perhaps you were right,” he said, “that I think too much 
about my health. I shouldn’t wonder if you were quite right. But 
I have always been warned that I was very delicate; and perhaps 
that makes one rather a bore to one’s friends.” 

“ Oh, 1 hope you will forgive me, Mr. Ramsay! I never 
meant — ” 

“There is poor Winterbourn, you see,” said Claude, accepting 
the broken apology, with a benevolent nod of his head and the mild 
pathos of a smile. “ He was one of your rash people never paying 
any attention to what was the matter with him. He was quite a 
well-preserved sort of man when he married Nelly St. John; and 
now you see what a wreck! By Jove, though, I shouldn’t like my 
wife, if I married, to treat me like Nelly. But I promise you there 
should be no Markham in my case.” 

“ I don’t know what Markham has to do with it,” said Frances 
with sudden spirit, 

“Oh, you don’t know! Well,” he continued, looking at her, 
“perhaps* you don’t know; and so much the better. Nevermind 
about Markham, I should expect my wife to be with me when I 
am ill; not to leave me to servants, to give me my — everything I had 
to take; and to cheer me up, you know. Do you think there is 
anything unreasonable in that?” 

“ Oh, no, indeed. Of course, if — if — she was fond of you — 
which of course she would be, or you would not want to marry 
her.” 

“Yes,” said Claude. “ Go on, please; I like to hear you talk.” 

“ I mean,” said Prances, stumbling a little, feeling a significance 
in this encouragement which disturbed her, “that, of course — 
there would be no question of reasonableness. She would just do 
it by nature. One never asks if it is reasonable or not.” 

“ Ah, you mean you wouldn’t. But other girls are different. 
There is Con, for instance.” 

“ Mr. Ramsay, I don’t think you ought to speak to me so about 
mj" sister. Constance, if she were in such a position, would do — 
what was right.” 

^ “ For that matter, I suppose Nelly Winterbourn does what is 
right — at least, every one says she behaves so well. If that is what 
you mean by right, I shouldn’t relish it at all in my wife.” 

Frances said nothing for a minute, and then she asked, “ Are you 
going to be married, Mr. Ramsay?” in a tone which was half in- 
dignant, half amused. 

At this he started a little, and gave her an inquiring look. “ That 
is a question that wants thinking of,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I 
am, if I can find any one as nice as that. You are always giving 
me renseignements, Miss Waring. If I can find some one who will, 
as you say, never ask whether it is reasonable — ” 

“ Then,” said Prances, recovering something of the sprightli- 
ness which had distinguished her in old days, “ yoq don’t want to 
marry any one in particular, but just a wife?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIITST ITSELF. 


195 


" What else could I marry?” he asked in a peevish tone. Then, 
with a change of his voice; ” I don’t want to conceal anything from 
you; and there is no doubt you must have heard — I w'as engaged to 
your sister Con; but she ran away from me,” he added with 
pathos. “You must have heard that.” 

” I do not wonder that you were very fond of her,” cried Fran- 
ces. ” I see no one so delightful as — she would be if she w^ere here.” 

She had meant to make a simple statement, and say, “ No one so 
delightful as she;” but paused, remembering that the circumstances 
had not been to Constance’s advantage, and that here she would have 
been in her proper sphere. 

As for Claude, he was somewhat embarrassed. He said: ” Fond 
is perhaps not exactly the word. I thought she w^ould have suited 
me — better than any one I knew.” 

“ If that was all,” said Frances, “ you would not mind very much: 
and I do not wonder that she came away; for it would be rather 
dreadful to be married because a gentleman thought one suited 
him.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean that would be so — in every case,” cried 
Claude with sudden earnestness. 

“ In any case, I think you should never tell the girl’s sister, Mr. 
Ramsay; it is not a very nice thing to do.” 

” Miss Waring — Frances! I was not thinking of you as any girl’s 
sister; I ’was thinking of you — ’ ’ 

” I hope not at all; for it would be a great pity to waste any 
more thoughts on our family,” said Frances. ” I have sometimes 
been a little vexed that Consiam " - 



and took me away from every 


have told me this, for now I understand it quite.” She did not rise 
from where she was seated and leave him, as he almost hoped she 
would, making a little quarrel of it, but sat still, with a composure 
which Claude felt was much less complimentary. ‘‘ Now that I 
know all about it,” she said, after a little interval, with a laugh, 
“ I think what you want would be very unreasonable — and what 
no woman could do.” 

“You said the very reverse five minutes ago,” he said sulkily. 

“ Yes — but I didn’t know what the — what the wages were,’’^ she 
said with another laugh. “It is you who are giving me ren- 
seignements now.” 

Claude took his complaint next morning to Lady Markham’s 
room. “ She actually chaffed me — chaffed me, I assure you; 
though she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth.” 

“ That is a little vulgar, Claude If you talk like that to a girl, 
what can you expect? Some, indeed, may be rather grateful to you 
as showing how little you look for; but you know I have always 
told you what you ought to try to do is to inspire grande passion” 

“ That is what I should like above all things to do,” said the 



“ Perhaps; and I am not an impassioned sort of man. Lady 
Markham, was it really from me that Constance ran away?” 

“ I have told you before, Claude, that was not how it should be 
spoken of. She did not run away. She took into her head a ro- 


196 


A HOUSE UIYIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


mantic idea of making acquaintance with her father, in wdiich 
Markham encouraged her. Or, perhaps, it was Markham that put 
it into her head. It is possible — 1 can’t tell you — that Markham 
had already something else in his own head, and that he had begun 
to think it would be a good thing to try if other changes could be 
made.” 

“ What could Markham have in his head? and what changes — ” 

“Oh,” she cried, “how can you ask me? I know how you 
have all been talking. You speculate, just as I do.” 

“ I don’t think so, Lady Markham,” said Claude. “ I am sure 
Markham would ^nd all that sort of thing a great bore. Of course 
I know what you mean. But I don’t think so, I have always told 
them my opinion. Whatever may happen, Markliam will stick to 
you.” 

“ Poor Markham!” she said with a quick revulsion of feeling. 
“ After all, it is a little hard, is it not, that he should have nothing 
brighter than that to look to in his life?” 

“Than you?” said Claude. “If you ask my opinion, I don’t 
think so. I think he’s a lucky fellow. An old mother, I don’t 
deny, might be a bore. An old lady, half blind, never hearing 
what you say, sitting by the fire — like the mother in books, or the 
Mrs. Nickleby kind. But you are as young and handsome and 
bright as any of them — keeping everything right for him, asking 
nothing. Upon my word, I think he is very well off. I wish I 
were in his place.” 

Lady Markham was pleased. Affectionate flattery of this kind is 
always sweet to a woman. She laughed, and said he was a gay 
deceiver. ‘ ‘ But, piy dear boy, you will maLe me think a great 
deal more of myself than I have any right to think. ’ ’ 

“You ought to think more of yourself. And so you really do 
not think that Con — ? In many ways, dear Lady Markham, I feel 
that Con — understood me better than any one else — except you.” 

“ I think you are right, Claude,” she said with a grave face. 

“ I am beginning to feel quite sure I am right. When she writes, 
does she never say anything about me?” 

“ Of course, she always — asks for you.” 

“ Is that all? Asking does not mean much.” 

“ What more could she say? Of course she knows that she has 
lost her place in your affection by her owm rashness.” 

“ Not lost. Lady Markham. It is not so easy to do that.” 

“ It is true. Perhaps I should have said, fears that she has for- 
feited — your respect. ’ ’ 

“ After all, she has done nothing wrong,” he said. 

“ Nothing wron^; but rash, headstrong, foolish. Oh, yes, she 
has been all that. It is in the Waring blood!” 

“ I think you are a little hard upon her. Lady Markham. By 
the way, don’t you think yourself, that with tw^o daughters to 
marry, and— and all that: it w^ould be a good thing if Mr. Waring 
—for you must have got over all your little tiffs long ago — don’t 
you think that it wotild be a good thing if he could be persuaded to 
■ — come back?” 

She had watched him with eyes that gleamed from below her 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 197 

dropped eyelids. She said now, as she had done to Sir Thomas : 

I should put no ditliculties in the way, you may be sure.” 

“ It would be more respectable,” said Claude. “ If getting old is 
good for anything, you know, it should make up quarrels; don’t 
you think so? It would be a great deal better in every way. And 
then Markham — ” 

‘ Markham,” she said, “ you think, would then be free?” 

“ Well — then it wouldn’t matter particularly about Markham, 
what he did,” the young man said. 

Lady Markham had borne a great many such assaults in her life 
as if she felt nothing; but as a matter of fact she did feel them 
deeply; and when a probable new combination was thus calmly set 
before her, her usual composure was put to severe test. She 
smiled upon Claude, indeed, as long as he remained with her, and 
allowed him no glimpse of her real feelings; but when he was gone, 
felt for a moment her heart fail her. She had, even in the misfor- 
tunes which had crossed her life, secured always a great share of 
her own way. Many people do this even when they suffer most. 
Whether they get it cheerfully or painfully, they yet get it, which 
is alwaj’^s something. Waring, when, in his fastidious impatience 
and irritation, because he did not get his, he had flung forth into the 
unknown, and abandoned her and her life altogether, did still, 
though at the cost of pain and scandal, help his wife to this tri- 
umph, that she departed from none of her requirements and re- 
mained mistress of the battlefield. She had her own way, though 
he would not yield to it. But as a woman grows older, and be- 
comes less capable of that pertinacity which is the best means of 
securing her own way, and when the conflicting wills against hers 
are many instead of being only one, the state of the matter changes. 
Constance had turned against her, when she was on the eve of an 
arrangement which would have been so very much for Con’s good. 
And Frances, though so submissive in some points, would not be 
so, she felt instinctively, on others. And Markham — that was the 
most fundamental shock of all — Markham might possibly in the 
future have prospects and hopes independent altogether of his 
mothers, in antagonism with all her arrangements. This, which 
she had not anticipated, went to her heart. And when she thought 
of what had been suggested to her with so much composure — the 
alteration of her whole life, the substitution of her husband, from 
whom she had been so long parted, who did not think as slie did 
nor live as she did, for her son, who, with all his faults, which she 
knew so well, was yet in sympathy with her in all she thought and 
wished and knew — this suggestion made her sick and faint. It had 
come, though not with any force, even from Markham himself. It 
had come from Sir Thomas, who was one of the oldest of her 
friends; and now Claude set it before her in all the forcible simplic- 
ity of commonplace: it would be more respectable! She laughed 
almost violently when he left her, but it was a laugh which was not 
far from tears. 

” Claude has been complaining of you,” she said to Frances, re- 
covering herself with an instantaneous effort when her daughter 
came into the room; “ but I don’t object, my dear. Unless you 
ihad found that you could like him yourself, which would have 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


1.93 

been the best thing, perhaps — you were quite right in what you 
said. So far as Constance is concerned, it is all that 1 could wish.” 

“Mamma,” said Frances, “you don’t want Constance — you 
would not let her — accept thatT' 

“ Accept what? My love, you must not be so emphatic. Accept 
a life full of luxury, splendor even, if she likes — and every care 
forestalled. My dear little girl, you don’t know anything about 
the world.” 

Frances pondered for some time before she replied. “ Mamma,” 
she said again, “ if such a case arose — you said that the best thing 
for me would have been to have liked — Mr. Ramsay. There is no 
i question of that. But if such a case arose — ” 

I “ Yes, my dear ’’—Lady Markham took her daughter’s hand in 
'her own and looked at her with a smile of pleasure — “I hope it 
will some day. And what then?” 

“Would you — think the same about me? Would you consider 
the life full of luxury, as you said — would you desire for me the 
same thing as for Constance?” 

Lady Markham held the girl’s hand clasped in both of hers; the 
soft caressing atmosphere about her enveloped Frances. “ My 
dear,” she said, “ this is a very serious question. You are not ask- 
ing me for curiosity alone?” 

“ It is a very serious question,” Frances said. 

And the mother and daugher looked at each other closely, with 
more meaning, perhaps, than had as yet been in the eyes of either, 
notwithstanding all the excitement of interest in their first meeting. 
It was some time before another word was said. Frances saw in 
her mother a woman full of determination, very clear as to what 
she wanted, very unlikely to be turned from it by softer impulses, 
although outside she was so tender and soft; and Lady Markham 
saw in Frances a girl who was entirely submissive, yet immovable, 
whose dove’s eyes had a steady soft gaze, against wLich the kindred 
light of her owm had no power. It was a mutual revelation. There 
\vas no conflict nor appearance of conflict between these two, so 
like each other, two gentle and soft-voiced women, both full of 
natural courtesy and disinclination to wound or offend; both seeing 
everything around them very clearly from her own, perhaps lim- 
ited, point of view; and both feeling that between them nothing 
but the absolute truth would do. 

“You trouble me, Frances,” said Lady Markham at length. 

‘ ‘ When such a case arises, it will be time enough. In the abstract, 
I should of course feel for one as I feel for the other. Nay, stop 
a little. I should wish to provide for you, as for Constance, a life 
of assured comfort. Well, if you will drive me to it, of wealth and 
all that wealth brings. Assuredly, that is what I should wish. ’ ’ 
She gave Frances’ hand a pressure which was almost painful, and 
then dropped it. “I hope you have no fancy for poverty theoretic- 
ally, like your patron saint,” she added lightly, trying to escape 
from the gravity of the question by a laugh. 

“ Mother,” said Frances, in a voice which was tremulous and yet 
steady, “ I want to tell you — I think neither of poverty nor of money. 
I am more used, perhaps, to the one than the other. I will do 
what you wish in everything — everything else; but — ” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 199 

'* Not in the one thing which would probably be the only thing 
I asked of you,” said Lady Markham with a smile. She put her 
hands on iVances’ shoulders and gave her a kiss upon her cheek. 
“My dear child, you probably think this is quite original,” she 
said; “ but I assure you it is what almost every daughter one time 
or other says to her parents: Anything else — anything; but — 
Happily, there is no question between you and me. Let us wait till 
the occasion arises. It is always time enough to fall out,” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Nothing happened of any importance before their return to 
Eaton Square. Markham, hopping about with a queer sidelong 
motion he had, his little eyes screwed up with humorous meaning, 
seemed to Frances to recover his spirits after the Winterbourn epi- 
sode was over, which was the subject — though that, of course, she 
did not know — of half the voluminous correspondence of all the 
ladies and gentlemen in the house, whose letters were so important 
a part of their existence. Before a week was over, all Societj^ was 
aware of the fact that Ralph Winterbourn had been nearly dying at 
Markham Priory; that Lady Markham was in “a state” which 
baffled description, and Markham himself so changed as 1o be 
scarcely recognizable; but that, fortunately, the crisis had been 
tided over, and everything was still problematical. But the prob- 
lem was so interesting, that one perfumed epistle after another car- 
ried it to curious wits all over the country, and a new light upon 
the subject was warmly welcomed in a hundred Easter meetings. 
What would Markham do? What would Nelly do? Would their 
friendship end in the vulgar way, in a marriage? Would they 
venture, in face of all prognostications, to keep it up as a friend- 
ship, when there was no longer any reason why it should not ripen 
into love? Or would they, frightened by all the inevitable com- 
ments which they would have to encounter, stop short altogether, 
and fly from each other? 

Such a “ case ” is a delightful thing to speculate upon. At the 
Priory, it could only be discussed in secret conclave; and though 
no doubt the experienced persons chiefly concerned were quite con- 
scious of the subject which occupied their friends’ thoughts, there 
was no further reference made to it between them, and everything 
went on as it had always done. The night before their return to 
town, Markham, in the solitude of the house, from which all the 
guests had just departed, called Frances outside to bear him com- 
pany while he smoked is cigarette. He was walking up and down 
on the lawn in the gray stillness of a cloudy warm evening, when 
there was no light to speak of anywhere, and yet a good deal to be 
seen through the wavering grayness of sky and sea. A few stars, 
veiy mild and indistinct, looked out at the edges of the clouds here 
and there — the great w^ater-lihe widened and cleared toward the 
horizon; and in the far distance, where a deeper grayness showed 
the mainland, the light of a light-house surprised the dark by slow 
continual revolutions. There was no moon; something_ softer, 
more seductive than even the moon, was in this absence of light. 


200 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“Well — now they’re gone, what do you think of them, Fan? 
They’re very good specimens of the English country-house party — • 
all kinds; the respectable family, the sturdy old fogy, the rich 
young man without health, and the muscular young man without 
money. ’ ’ There had been, it is needless to say, various other mem- 
bers of the party, who, being quite unimportant to this history, 
need not be mentioned here, “ What do you think of them, little 
un? You have your own way of seeing things,” 

“ I — like them all well enough, Markham,” without enthusiasm 
Frances replied. 

“That is comprehensive at least. So do I, my dear. It would 
not have occurred to me to say it; but it is just the right thing to 
say. They pull you to pieces almost before your face; but they are 
not ill-natured. They tell all sorts of stories about each other — ” 

“ No, Markham; I don’t think that is just.” 

“ — Without meaning any harm,” he went on. “ Fan, in coun- 
tries where conversation is cultivated, perhaps people don’t talk 
scandal — I only say, perhaps — but here we are forced to take to it 
for want of anything else to say. What did your Giovannis and 
Giacomos talk of in your village out yonder?” Markham pointed 
toward the clear blue gray line of the horizon beyond which lay 
America, if anything; but he meant distance, and that was enough. 

“ They talked — about the olives, how they were looking, and if 
it was going to be a bad or an indifferent year.” 

“ And then?” 

‘ ‘ About the forestieri, if many were coming, and whether it 
would be a good season for the hotels; and about tying up the 
palms, to make them, ready for Easter,” said Frances, resuming, 
with a smile about her lips, “ And about how old Pietro’s son had 
got such a good appointment in the post-office, and had bought lit- 
tle Nina a pair of ear-rings as long as your finger; for he was to 
marry Nina, you know.” 

“ Oh, was he? Go on. I am very much interested. Didn’t 
they say Mr. Whatever-his-name-is wanted to get out of it, and 
that there never would have been any engagement, had not Miss 
Nina’s mother — ?” 

” Oh, Markham,” cried Frances in surprise, “how could you 
possibly know?” 

“ I was reasoning from analogy. Fan. Yes, I suppose they do it 
all the world over. And it is odd — isn’t it? that, knowing what 
they are sure to say, we ask them to our houses, and put the keys 
of all our skeleton cupboards into their hands.” 

“ Do you think that is true, that dreadful idea about the skele- 
ton? I am sure — ” 

“ What are you sure of, my little dear?” 

“ I was going to say, oh, Markham! that I was sure, at home, we 
had no skeleton; and then I remembered — ” 

“ I understand,” he said kindly. “ It was not a skeleton to 
speak of. Fan. There is nothing particularly bad about it. If 
you had met it out walking, you would not have known it for a 
skeleton. Let us say a mystery, whieh is not such a mouth-filling 
word.” 

“ Sir Thomas told me,” said Frances with some timidity; “ but 


A HOUSE HIYlDEr) AGAINST ITSELF. 20l 

i am not sure tliat I understood, Markham f what was it really 
about?” 

Her voice was low and diffident, and at first he only shook his 
head. “About nothing,” he said; “about — me. Yes, more than 
anything else, about me. That is how — No, it isn’t,” he added, 
correcting himself. “ I always must have cared for my mother 
more than for any woman. She has always been my greatest friend, 
ever since I can remember anything. We seem to have been chil- 
dren together, and to have grown up together. I was everything to 
her for a dozen years, and then — your father came between us. He 
hated me — and I tormented him,” 

“ He could not hate you, Markham. Oh, no, no!” 

“ My little Fan, how can a child like you understand? Neither 
did I understand, when I was doing all the mischief. Between 
twelve and eighteen, I was an imp of mischief, a little demon. 
It was fun to me to bait that thin-skinned man,' that jumped at 
everything. The explosion was fun to me too. I was a little beast. 
And then I got the mother to myself again. Don't kill me, my 
dear. I am scarcely sorry now. We have had very good times 
since, I with my parent, you with youis — till that day,” he added, 
flinging away the end of his cigarette, “when mischief again 
prompted me to let Con know where he was, which started us all 
again.” 

“ Did you always know where we were?” she asked. Strangely 
enough, this story did not give her any angry feeling toward Mark- 
ham. It was so far off, and the previous relations of her long-sep- 
arated father -and mother were as a fairy tale to her, confusing and 
almost incredible, which she did not take into account as matter of 
fact at all. Markham had delivered these confessions slowly, as 
they turned and returned up and down the lawn. There was not 
light enough for either to see the expression in the other’s face, and 
the veil of the darkness added to the softening effect. The words 
came out in short sentences, interrupted by that little business of 
puffing at the cigarette, letting it go out, stopping to strike a fusee 
and relight it, which so often forms the by-play of an important con- 
versation, and sometimes breaks the force of painful revelations. 
Frances followed everything with an absorbed but yet half- dreamy 
attention, as if the red glow of the light, the exclamation of impa- 
tience when the cigarette was found to have gone out, the very per- 
fume of the fusee in the air, were part and parcel of it. And the 
question she asked was almost mechanical, a part of the business, 
too, striking naturally from the last thing he had said as sparks 
flew from the perfumed light. 

“ Not where,” he said. “ But I might have known, had I made 
any attempt to know. The mother sent her letters through the 
lawyer, and of course we could have found out. It was thrust upon 
me at last by one of those meddling fools that go everywhere. And 
then my old demon got possession of me, and I told Con.” Here 
he gave a low chuckle, which seemed to escape him in spite of 
himself. “I am laughing,” he said — “pay attention, Fan — at 
myself. Of course I have learned to be sorry for— some things— 
the imp has put me up to; but I can’t get the better of that little 


202 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


demon — or of this little beggar, if you like it better. It’s queer 
phraseology, I suppose; but I prefer the other form.” 

“ And what,” said Frances, in the same dreamy way, drawn on, 
she was not conscious how, by something in the air, by some cur- 
rent of thought which she was not aware of — “ W’hat do you mean 
to do now?” 

He started from her side as if she had given him a blow. ” Do 
now?” he cried, with something in his voice that shook oif the spell 
of the situation and aroused the girl at once to the reality of things. 
She had no guidance of his looks, for, as has been said, she could 
not see them; but there was a curious thrill in his voice of present 
alarm and consciousness, as if her innocent question struck sharply 
against some fact of very different solidity and force from those far- 
off shadowy facts which he had been telling her. “ Do now'? 
What makes you think I am going to do anything at all?” 

His voice fell away in a sort of quaver at the end of these words. 

” I do not thihk it; I — I — don’t think anything, Markham; I — 
don’t — know anything.” 

“You ask very pat questions all the same, my little Fan. And 
you have got a pair of very good eyes of your own in that little 
head. And if you have got any light to throw upon the subject, 
my dear, produce it; for I’ll be bothered if I know.” 

Just then a window opened in the gloom. “Children,” said 
Lady Markham, “ are you there? I think I see something like you, 
though it is so dark. Bring your little sister in, Markham. She 
must not c^tch cold on the eve of going back to town.” 

‘ ‘ Here is the little thing, mammy. Shall I hand her in to you 
by the window? It makes me feel very frisky to hear myself ad- 
dressed as children, ” he cried, with his chuckle of easy laughter. 
“ Here, Fan; run in, my little dear, and be put to bed.” 

But he did not go in with her. He kept outside in the quiet cool 
and fresluiess of the night, illuminating the dim atmosphere now' 
and then with the momentary glow of another fusee. Frances 
from her room, to which she had shortly retired, heard the sound, 
and saw from her windows the sudden ruddy light a great many 
times before she went to sleep. Markham let his cigar go out 
oftener than she could reckon. He was too full of thought to re- 
member his cigar. 

They arrived in town wdien everybody was arriving, when even 
to Frances, in her inexperience, the rising tide was visible in the 
streets, and the air of a new w'orld beginning, which always marks 
the commencement of the season. No doubt, it is a new world to 
manv virgin souls, though so stale and w'eary to most of those who 
tread its endless round. To Frances, everything w'as new; and a 
sense of the many wonderful things that awaited her got into the 
girl’s head like ethereal wine, in spite of all the grave matters of 
which she was conscious, which lay under the surface, and w'ere, 
if not skeletons in the closet, at least very serious draw'backs to any- 
thing bright that life could bring. Her knowledge of these draw- 
back had been acquired so suddenly, and Was so little dulled by 
habit, that it dwelt upon her mind much more than family mysteries 
usually dwell upon a mind of eighteen. But yet in the rush and 
exhilaration of new thoughts and anticipations, always so much 


A -HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 203 

more delicately bright than any reality, she forgot that all was not 
as natural, as pleasant, as happy as it seemed. If Lady Markham 
had any consuming cares, she kept them shut away under that 
smiling countenance, which was as bright and peaceful” as the morn- 
ing. If Markham, on his side, was perplexed and doubtful, he came 
out and in with the same little chuckle of fun, the same humorous 
twinkle in his ej'^es. When these signs of tranquillity are so appar- 
ent, the young and ignorant can easily make up their minds that all 
is w^ell. And Frances was to be “ presented ” — a thought which, 
made her heart beat. She was to be put into a court- train andf 
feathers, she who as yet had never worn anything but the simplei 
frock which she had so pleased herself to think was purely Englishy 
in its unobtm.siveness and modesty. She was not quite sure that 
she liked the prospect; but it excited her all the same. ' 

It was early in May, and the train and the court plumes were 
ready, when, going out one morning upon some small errand of her 
own, Frances met some one whom she recognized walking slowly 
along the long line of Eaton Square. She started at the sight of 
him, though he did not see her. He was going with a strange air 
of reluctance, yet anxiety, looking up at the houses, no doubt look- 
ing for Lady Markham’s house, so absorbed that he neither saw 
Frances nor was disturbed by the startled movement she made, 
which must have caught a less preoccupied eye. She smiled to 
herself, after the first start, to see how entirely bent he was upon 
finding the house, and how little attention he had to spare for any- 
thing else. He was even more worn and pale, or rather gray, then 
he had been when he returned from India, she thought; and there 
w’as in him a slackness, a letting-^ of himself, a weary look in his 
step and carriage, which proved, Frances thought, that the Riviera 
had done George Gaunt little good. 

For it was certainly George Gaunt, still in his loose gray Indian 
clothes, looking like a man dropped from another hemisphere, in- 
vestigating the numbers on the doors as if he but vaguely compre- 
hended the meaning of them. But that there was in liim that un- 
mistakable air of soldier which no mufti can quite disguise, he 
might have been the Ancient Mariner in person, looking for the 
man whose fate it is to leave all the wedding-feasts of the world in 
order to hear that tale. What tale could youi^ Gaunt have to tell? 
For a moment it flashed across the mind of Frances that he might 
be bringing tad news, that “ something might have happened,” that , 
rapid conclusion to which the imagination is so ready to jump. An ' 
accident to her father or Constance? so bad, so terrible, that it 
could not be trusted to a letter, that he had been sent to break the 
news to them. 

She had passed him by this time, being shy, in her surprise, of ad- 
dressing the stranger all at once; but now she paused, and turned 
with a momentary intention of running after him and entreating 
him to tell her the worst. But then Frances recollected that this 
was impossible; that with the telegraph in active operation, no one 
would employ this lingering way of conveying news; and went on 
again, with her heart beating quieter, with a heightened color, and 
a restrained impatience and eagerness of which she was half 
ashamed. No, she would not turn back before she had done her 


204 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


little business. She did not want either the stranger himself or any 
one else to divine the flutter of pleasant emotion, the desire she had 
to see and speak with the son of her old friends. Yes, she said to 
herself, the son of her old friends — he who was the youngest, whom 
Mrs. Gaunt used to talk of for hours, whose praises she was never 
weary of singing. 

Frances smiled and blushed to herself as she hurried, perceptibly 
hurried, about her little affairs. Kind Mrs. Gaunt had always had 
a secret longing to bring these two together. Frances would not 
' turn back; but she quickened her pace, almost running, as near 
^ running as was decorous in London, to the lace-shop, to give the in- 
" structions .which she had been charged with. Ko doubt, she said to 
herself, she would find him there when she got back. She had for- 
gotten, perhaps, the fact that George Gaunt had given very little of 
his regard to her when he met her, though she was his mother’s 
favorite, and had no-eyes but for Constance. This was not a thing 
to dwell in the mind of a girl who had no jealousy in her, and who 
never supposed herself to be half as worthy of anybody’s attention 
as Constance was. But, anyhow, she forgot it altogether, forgot to 
ask herself what in this respect might have happened in the mean- 
time; and with her heart beating full of innocent eagerness, pleas- 
ure, and excitement, full of the hope of hearing about everybody, 
of seeing again through his eyes the dear little well-known world, 
which seemed to lie so far behind her, hastened through her errands, 
and turned quickly home. 

To her great surprise, as she came back, turning round the comer 
into the long line of pavement, she saw young Gaunt once more 
approaching Tier. He looked even more listless and languid now, 
like a man who had tried to do some duty, and failed, and was 
escaping, glad to be out of the way of it. This was a great deal to 
read in a man’s face; but Frances was highly sympathetic, and di- 
vined it, knowing in herself many of those devices of shy people, 
which shy persons divine. Fortunately, she saw him some way 
off, and had time to overcome her own shyness and take the initia- 
tive. She went up to him fresh as the May morning, blushing and 
smiling, and put out her hand. “ Captain Gaunt?” she said. “ I 
knew I could not be mistaken. Oh, Rave you just come from 
Bordighera? I am so glad to see any one from home!” 

“ Do you call it home. Miss Waring? Yes, I have just come. I 
— I — have a number of messages, and some parcels, and — But I 
thought you might perhaps be out of town, or busy, and that it 
•would be best to send them.” 

“ Is that why you are turning your back on my mother’s house? 
or did you not know the number? I saw you before, looking — but 
I did not like 1 0 speak. ” 

“ I— thought you might be out of town,” he repeated, taking no 
notice of her question; “ and that perhaps the post — ” 

“ Oh, no,” cried Frances, whose shyness was of the cordial kind. 
“ Now, you must come back and see mamma. She will want to 
hear all about Constance. Are they all well. Captain Gaunt? Of 
course you must have seen them constantly — and Constance. 
Mamma will want to hear everything.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 205 

“ Miss Waring is very well,” he said, with a blank countenance, 
from which he had done his best to dismiss all expression. 

“And papa, and dear Mrs. Gaunt, and the colonel, and every- 
body? Oh, there is so much that letters can’t tell. Come back 
uow. My mother will be so glad to see you and Markham; you 
know Markham already.” 

Young Gaunt made a feeble momentary resistance. He mur- 
mured something about an engagement, about his time being very 
short; but as he did so, turned round languidly and went with her, 
obeying, as seemed, the eager impulse of Frances, rather than any 
will of his own. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Lady Markham received young Gaunt with the most gracious 
kindness; had his mother seen him seated in the drawing-room at 
Eaton Square, with Frances hovering about him full of pleasure 
and questions, and her mother insisting that he. should stay to 
luncheon, and Markham’s hansom just drawing up at the door, she 
would have thought her boy on the highway to fortune. The sweet- 
ness of the two ladies, the happy eagerness of Frances, and Lady 
Markham’s grace and graciousness, had a soothing effect upon the 
young man. He had been unwilling to come, as he was unwilling 
to go anywhere at this crisis of his life; but it soothed him, and 
filled him with a sort of painful and bitter pleasure 1 o be thus sur- 
rounded by all that was most familiar to Constance, by her mother 
and sister, and all their questions about her. These questions, in- 
deed, it was hard upon him to be obliged to answer; but yet that 
pain was the best thing that now remained to him, he said to him- 
self. To hear her name, and all those allusions to her, to be in the 
rooms where she had spent her life — all this gave food to his long- 
ing fancy, and wrung, yet soothed, his heart. 

“ My dear, you will worry Captain Gaunt with your questions; 
and I don’t know those good people, Tasie and the rest; you must 
let me have my turn now. Tell me about my daughter. Captain 
Gaunt. She is not a very good correspondent. She gives few de- 
tails of her life; and it must be so very different from life here. 
Does she seem to enjoy herself? Is she happy and bright? I have 
longed so much to see some one, impartial, whom I could ask.” 

Impartial! If they only knew! “ She is always bright,” he said, 
with a suppressed passion, the meaning of which Frances divined 
suddenly, almost with a cry, with a start and thrill of sudden cer- 
tainty, which took away her breath. “ But for happy, I can not 
tell. It is not good enough for her, out there.” 

“ No? Thank you. Captain Gaunt, for appreciating my child. I 
was afraid it was not much of a sphere for her. What company 
has she? Is there aiwthing going on—?” 

“ Mamma,” said Frances, “ I told you— there is nothing going 
on.” 

The young soldier shook his head. “ There is no society — except 
the Durants— and ourselves— who are not mteresting,” he said, with 
a somewhat ghastly smile. 

“The Durants are the clergyman’s family?— and yourselves. I 


X HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELE. 


206 

think she might have been worse off. I am sure Mrs. Gaunt has 
been kind to my wayward girl,” she said, looking him in the face 
with that charming smile. 

"‘Kind!” he cried, as if the word were a profanation. “My 
mother is too happy to do — anything. But Miss Waring,” he added, 
with a feeble smile, “ has little need of — any one. She has so many 
resources — she is so far above — ” 

He got inarticulate here, and stumbled in his speech, growing 
very red. Frances watched him under her eyelids with a curious j 
sensation of pain. He was very much in earnest, very sad, yet ‘ 
transported out of his languor and misery by Constance’s name. ‘ 
Now, Frances had heard of George Gaunt 'for years, and had un- ’ 
consciously allowed her thoughts to dwell upon him, as has been 
mentioned in another part of this history. His arrival, had it not 
happened in the midst of other excitements which preoccupied her, 
would have been one of the greatest excitements she had ever 
known. She remembered now that when it did happen there had 
been a faint almost imperceptible touch of disappointment in it, in 
the fact that his whole attention was given to Constance, and that 
for herself, Frances, he had no eyes. But in the moment of seeing 
him again, she had forgotten all that, and had gone back to her 
previous prepossession in his favor, and his mother’s certainty that 
Frances and her George would be “ great friends.” Now, she un- 
derstood with instant divination the whole course of affairs. He had 
given his heart to Constance, and she had not prized the gift. The 
discovery gave her an acute yet vague (if that could be) impression 
of pain. It was she, not Constance, that had been prepossessed in 
his favor. Had Constance not been there, no doubt she would 
have been thrown much into the society of George Gaunt — and — 
who could tell what iriight have happened? All this came before 
her like the sudden opening of a landscape hid by fog and mists. 
Her eyes swept over it, and then it was gone. And this was what 
never had been, and never would be. 

“ Poor Con,” said Lady Marldiam. “ She never was thrown on 
her own resources before. Has she so many of them? It must be 
a curiously altered life for her, when she has to fall back upon what 
you call her resources. But you think she is happy?” she asked, 
with a sigh. 

How could he answer? The mere fact that she was Constance, 
seemed to Gaunt a sort of paradise. If she could make him happy 
by a look or a word, by permitting him to be near her, how was it 
possible that being herself, she couid be otherwise than blessed? 
He was well enough aware that there was a flaw in his logic some- 
where, but his mind was not strong enough to perceive where that 
flaw was. 

Markham came in in time to save him from the difficulty of an an- 
swer. Markham did not recollect the young man, whom he had 
only seen once; but he hailed him with great friendliness, and be- 
gan to inquire into his occupations and engagements. “ If you have 
nothing better to do you must come and dine with me at my club,” 
he said in the kindest way, for which Frances was very grateful to 
her brother. And young Gaunt for his part began to gather himself 
together a little. The presence of a man roused him. There is 


A HOUSE UIVIDEB AOAINST ITSELE. 


207 


something, no doubt, seductive and relaxing in the fact of being 
surrounded by sympathetic women, ready to divine and to console. 
He had not braced himself to bear the pain of their questions; but 
somehow, had felt a certain luxury in letting his despondency, his 
languor, and displeasure with life appear. “ I have to be here,” ho 
had said to them, ‘‘to see people, 1 believe. My father thinks it 
necessary; and I could not stay; that is, my people are leaving 
Bordighera, It becomes too hot to hold one — they say.” 

‘‘ But you would not feel that, coming from India?” 

“ I came to get braced up,” he said, with a smile, as of self- ridi- 
cule, and made a little pause. ‘‘ I have not succeeded very well in 
that,” he added presently. ‘‘ They think England will do me more 
good. I go back to India in a year; so that, if I can be braced up, I 
should not lose any time.” 

“ You should go to Scotland, Captain Gaunt. I don’t mean at 
once, but as soon as you are tired of the season — that is the place to 
brace you up — or to Switzerland, if you like that better.” 

“Ido not much care,” he had said with another melancholy 
smile, ‘ ‘ where I go. ” 

The ladies tried every way they could think of to console him, to ■ 
give him a warmer interest in his life. They told him that when he 
was feeling stronger, his spirits would come back. “ I know how 
one runs down when one feels out of sorts,” Lady Marldiam said. 
“ You must let us try to amuse you a little. Captain Gaunt.” 

But when Markham came in this softness came to an end. George' 
Gaunt picked himself up, and tried to look like a man of the world. 
He had to see some one at the Horse Guards; and he had some rela- 
tions to call upon; but he would be very glad, he said, to dine with 
Lord Markham. It surprised Frances that her mother did not appear 
to look with any pleasure on this engagement. She even interposed 
in a way which was marked. “Don’t you think, Markliam, it 
would be better if Captain Gaunt and you dined with me? Frances 
is not half satisfied. She has not asked half her questions. She 
has the first right to an old friend.” 

“ Gaunt is not going away to-morrow,” Said Markham. “Be- 
sides, if he’s out of sorts, he wants amusing, don’t you see?” 

“ And we are not capable of doing that. Frances, do you hear?” 

“ Very capable, in your way. But for a man, when he’s low, 
ladies are dangerous — that’s my opinion, and I’ve a good deal of 
experience.” 

“ Of low spirits, Markham!” 

“No, bul of ladies,” he said, with a chuckle. “ I shall take him 
somewhere afterward; to the play, perhaps, or — somewhere amusing; 
whereas you would talk to him all night, and Fan would ask him 
questions, and keep him on the same level.” 

Lady Markham made a reply which to Frances sounded very 
strange. She said: “To the play — perhaps?” in a doubtful tone, 
looking at her son. Gaunt had been sitting looking on in the em- 
barrassed and helpless way in which a man naturally regards a dis- 
cussion over his own body, as it were, particularly if itisaconfiictof 
kindness, and, glad to be delivered from this friendly duel, turned 
to Frances with some observation, taking no heed of Lady Mark- 
ham’s remark. But Frances heard it with a confused premonition 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


208 

which she could not understand. She could not understand, and 
yet — She saw Markham shrug his shoulders in reply; there was a 
slight color upon his face, which ordinarily knew none. What did 
they both mean? 

But how elated would Mrs. Gaunt have been, how pleased the 
general, had they seen their son at Lady Markham’s luncheon -table 
m the midst, so to speak, of the first society! Sir Thomas came in 
to lunch, as he had a way of doing; and so did a gay young 
Guardsman, who was indeed naturally a little contemptuous of a 
man in the line, yet civil to Markham’s friend. These simple old 
people would have thought their George on the ww to every ad- 
vancement, and believed even the heart-break which'had procured 
him that honor well compensated. These were far from his own 
sentiments; yet, to feel himself thus warmly received by “ her peo- 
ple,” the object of so much kindness, which his deluded heart 
whispered must surely, surely, whatever she might intend, have 
been suggested at least by something she had said of him, was balm 
and healing to his wounds. He looked at her mother — and indeed 
Lady Markham was noted for her graciousness, and for looking as 
if she meant to be the motherly friend of all who approached her — 
with a sort of adoration. To be the mother of Constance, and yet 
to speak to ordinary mortals with that smile, as if she had no more 
to be proud of than they! And wliat could it be that made her so 
kind? Not anything in him — a poor soldier, a pooi soldier’s son, 
knowing nothing but the exotic society of India and its curious w^ays 
— surely something which, out of some relenting of the heart, some 
pity or regret, Constance had said. Frances sat next to him at table, 
and there was a more subtle satisfaction still in speaking low, aside 
to Frances, when he got a little confused with the general conver- 
sation, that bewildering talk which was all made up of allusions. 
He told her that he had brought a parcel from the Palazzo, and a 
box of flow'^ers from the bungalow — that his mother was very 
anxious to hear from her, that they were going to Switzerland — no, 
not coming home, this year. ‘ ‘ They have found a cheap place in 
which my mother delights,” he said, with a faint smile. He did 
not tell her that his coming home a little circumscribed their re- 
sources, and that the month in town wdiich they were so anxious he 
should have, which in other circumstances he would have enjoyed 
so much, but which now he cared nothing for, nor for anything, 
was the reason why they had stopped half-way on their usual sum- • 
mer journey to England. Dear old people, they had done it for him 
— this was wdiat he thought to himself, though he did not say it — 
for him, for whom nobody could now do anything! He did not say 
much, but as he looked in Frances’ sympathetic eyes he felt that , 
without saying a word to her she must understand it all. 

Lady Markham made no remark about their visitor until after 
they had done their usual afternoon’s ” work,” as it was her habit 
to call it, their round of calls, to which she w^ent in an exact succes- 
sion, saying lightly as she cut short each visit, that she could stay 
no longer, as she had so much to do. There w^as alw’^ays a shop or 
two to go to, in addition to the calls, and almost ahvays some be- 
nevolent errand — some Home to visit, some hospital to call at, 
something about the work of poor ladies, or the salvation of poor. 


A HOUSE UlYIDEi) AGAIE’ST ITSELE, 200 

girls — all these were included along with the calls in the afternoon’s 
work. And it was not till they had returned home and were seated 
together at tea, refreshing themselves after their labors, that she 
mentioned young Gaunt. She then said, after a minute’s silence, 
suddenly, as if the subject had been long in her mind: “ 1 wish 
Markham had let that young man alone- I wish’ he had left him to 
you and me.” 

^ Frances started a little, and felt, with great self-indignation and 
distress, that she blushed — though why she could not tell. She 
looked up, wondering, and said “ Markham! I thought it was so 
very kind.” 

“Yes, my dear; I believe he means to be kind.” 

“ Oh, I am sure he does; for he could have no interest in George 
Gaunt, not for himself. I thought it was perhaps for my sake, be- 
cause he was — because he was the son of — such a friend. ’ ’ 

“Were they so good to you, Frances? And no doubt to Con, 
too.” 

“lam sure of it, mamma.” 

“ Poor people, ” said Lady Markham; “and this is the reward 
they get. Con has been experimenting on that poor boy. What do 
I mean by experimenting? You know well enough what I mean, 
Frances. I suppose he was the only man at hand, and she has been 
amusing herself. He has been dangling about her constantly, I have 
no doulDt, and she has made him believe that she liked it as well as 
he did. And then he has made a declaration, and there has been a 
scene. I am sorry to say I need no evidence in this case; I know 
all about it. And now, Markliam ! Poor people, I say. It would 
have been well for them if they had never seen one of our race.” 

“ Mamma,” cried Frances, with a little indignation, “ I feel sure 
you are misjudging Constance. What would she do anything so 
cruel for? Papa used to say that one must have a motive. ” 

“ lie said so. I wonder if he could tell what motives were his 
when — Forgive me, my dear. We will not discuss your father. 
As for Con, her motives are clear enough — amusement. Now, my 
dear, don’t! 1 know you were going to ask me, with your inno- 
cent face, what amusement it could possibly be to break that young 
man’s heart. The greatest in the world, my love! We need not 
mince matters between ourselves. There is nothing that diverts 
Con so much, and many another woman. You think it is terrible; 
but it is true.” 

“ I think — you must be mistaken,” said Frances, pale and troub- 
led, with a little gasp as for breath. “ But,” she went on, “ sup- 
posing even that you were right about Con, what would Markham 
do?” 

Lady Markham looked at her very gravely. “ He has asked this 
poor young fellow — to dinner,” she said. 

Frances could scarcely restrain a laugh, which was half hyster- 
ical. “ That does not seem very tragic,” she said. 

“ Oh, no, it does not seem very tragic — poor people, poor people!” 
said Lady Markham, shaking her head. 

And there was no more; for a visitor appeared — one of a little 
circle of ladies who came in and out every day, intimates, who 
rushed upstairs and into the room without being announced, always 


210 


X HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF* 


with something to say about the Home or the Hospital or the Re- 
formatory or the Poor Ladies or the endangered girls. There was 
always a great deal to say about these institutions, which formed 
an important part of the “ work ” which all these ladies had to do. 
Frances withdrew to a little distance, so as not to embarrass her 
mother and her friend, who were discussing “cases” for one of 
those refuges of suffering humanity, and were more comfortable 
when she was out of hearing. Frances knitted and thought of 
home — not this bewildering version of it, but the quiet of the idle 
village life where there was no ‘ ‘ work, ’ ’ but where all were neigh- 
bors, lending a kindly hand to each other in trouble, and where the 
tranquil days flew by she knew not how. She thought of this with 
a momentary, oft-recurring secret protest against this other life, of 
which, as was natural, she saw the evil more clearly than the good; 
and then, with a bound, her thoughts returned to the extraordinary 
question to which her mother had made so extraordinary a reply. 
What could Markliam do? “He has asked the poor young fellow 
to dinner. ’ ’ Even now, in the midst of the painful confusion of 
her mind, she almost laughed. Asked him to dinner! How would 
that harm him? At Markham’s club there would be no poisoned 
dishes — nothing that would slay. What harm could it do to George 
Gaunt to dine with Markham? She asked herself the question again 
and again, but could find no reply. When she turned to the other 
side and thought of Constance the blood rushed to her head in a 
feverish angry pain. Was that aiso true? But in this case, Fran- 
ces, like her mother, felt that no doubt was possible. 'In this re- 
spect •She had been able to understand what her mother said to her. 
Her heart bled for the poor people, whom Lady Markham compas- 
sionated without knowing them, and wondered how Mrs. Gaunt 
would bear the sight of the girl who had been cruel to her son. All 
that with agitation and trouble she could believe. But Markham! 
What could Markham do? 

She was going to the play with her mother that evening, which 
was to Frances, fresh to every real enjoyment, one of the greatest of 
pleasures. But she did not enjoy it that night. Lady Markham 
paid little attention to the play; she studied the people as they went 
and came, which was a usual weakness of hers, much wondered at 
and deplored by Frances, to whom the stage was the center of at- 
traction. But on this occasion Lady Markham was more distraite 
than ever, leveling her glass at every new group that appeared at 
all the moments of the recesses between the acts, the restless crowd 
which is always in motion. Her face, when she removed the glass 
from it, was anxious and almost unhappy. “ Frances,” she said, 
in one of these pauses, “ your eyes must be sharper than mine, try 
if you can see Markham anywhere. 

“ Here is Markham,” said her son, opening the door of the b^. 

“ What does the mother want with me. Fan?” 

“ Oh, you are here!” Lady Markham cried, leaning back in Ik 
chair with a sigh of relief. “ And Captain Gaunt, too.” 

“Quite safe, and out of the way of mischief,” said Markham, 
with a chuckle, which brought the color to hh) mother’s cheek. 


JL HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF, 


211 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

After this, for about a fortnight, Captain Gaunt was very often 
visible in Eaton Square. He dined next evening with Lady Mark- 
ham and Frances; Sir Thomas, who scarcely counted, he was so often 
there, being the other convive. Sir Thomas was a man who had a 
great devotion for Lady Markham, and a very distant link of cousin- 
ship, which, or something in themselves wtiich made that impossi- • 
ble, had silenced any remark of gossip, much less scandal, upon 
their friendship. He came in to luncheon whenever it pleased him; ' 
he dined there — when he was not dining anywhere else. But as 
both he and Lady Markham had many engagements, this was not 
too often the case, though there was larely an evening, if the ladies 
were at home, when Sir Thomas did not ‘ ‘ look in. ’ ’ His intimacy 
was like that of a brother in the cheerful eas}'- house. The cheerful 
company, the friendliness, the soothing atmosphere of feminine 
sympathy around him; and underneath all the foolish hope, more 
sweet than anything else, that a certain relenting on the part of 
Constance must be underneath, took away the gloom and dejection, 
in great part at least, from the young soldier’s looks. He exerted 
himself to please the people who were so kind to him, and his mel- 
ancholy smile had begun to brighten into something more natural. 
Frances for her part thought him a very delightful addition to the 
party. She looked at him across the table almost with the pride 
which a sister might have felt when he made a good appearance 
and did himself credit. He seemed to belong to her more or less, 
to reflect upon her the credit which he gained. It showed that her 
friends after all were worth thinking of, that they v^ere not unworthy 
of the admiration she had for them, that they were able to hold 
their own in what the people here called Society and the world. She 
raised her little animated face to young Gaunt, was the first to see 
what he meant, unconsciously interpreted or explained for him when 
he was hazy, and beamed with delight when Lady Markham was 
Interested and amused. Poor Frances was not always quite clever 
enough to see, when it happened that the two elders were amused 
by the man himself, rather than by what he said, and her gratifica- 
tion was great in his success. She herself had never aspired to suc- 
cess in her own person; but it was a great pleasure to her that the 
little community at Bordighera should be vindicated and put in the 
best li^ht. “ They will never be able to say to me now that we had 
no society, that we saw nobody,” Frances said to herself, attributing, 
however, a far greater brilliancv to poor George than he ever pos- 
sessed. He fell back into melancholy, how’ever, when the ladies 
left, and Sir Thomas found him dull. He had very little to say 
about Waring, on whose behalf the benevolent baronet was so much 
interested. 

“ Do you think he shows any inclination toward home?” Sir 
Thomas asked. 

” I am sure,” young Gaunt answered, with a solemn face, ” that 
there is nothing there that can satisfy such a creature as that.” 


212 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“ He has no society, then?” asked Sir Thomas. 

“ Oh, society! it is like the poem,” said the young man, with a 
sigh. “I should think it would be so everywhere. Ye common 
people of the sky, what are ye when your queen is nigh?” 

Sir Thomas had been much puzzled by the application to Waring, 
as he supposed, of the phrase, “ such a creature as that;” but now 
he perceived, with a compassionate shake of his head, what the 
poor young fellow meant. Con had been at her tricks again! He 
said with the pitying look which such a question warranted : “I 
suppose you are very fond of poetry?” 

” No,” said the young soldier, astonished, looking at him sud- 
denly. ” Oh, no. I am afraid I am very ignorant; but sometimes 
it expresses what nothing else can express. Don’t you think so?” 

‘ ‘ I think perhaps it is time to join the ladies, ’ ’ Sir Thomas said. 
He was sorry for the boy, though a little contemptuous, too; but 
then he himself had known Con and her tricks from her cradle, and 
those of many another, and he was hardened. He thought their 
mothers had been far more attractive women. 

Was it the same art which made Frances look up with that bright 
look of welcome, and almost atfectionate interest, when they re- 
turned to the drawing-room. Sir Thomas liked her so much, that 
he hoped it was not one of their tricks, then paused, and said to 
himself that it would be better if it were so, and not that the girl had 
really taken a fancy to this young fellow, whose heart and head were 
both full of another, and who, even without that, would evidently 
be a very poor thing for Lady Markham’s daughter. Sir Thomas 
was so far unjust to Frances that he concluded it must be one of 
her tricks, when he recollected how complacent she had been to 
Claude Ramsay, finding places for him where he could sit out of 
the draught. They were all like that, he said to himself; but con- 
cluded, that as one nail drives out another, a second ” affair ” if he 
could be drawn into it, might cure the victim. This rapid rhume 
of all the circumstances present and future is a thing Which may 
well take place in an experienced mind in the moment of entering a 
room in which there are materials for the development of a new 
chapter in the social drama. The conclusion he came to led him to 
the side of Lady Markham, who was writing the address upon one 
of her many notes. “It is to Nelly "Winterbourn,” she explained, 
” to inquire — You know they have dragged that poor sufferer up 
to town, to be near the best advice; and he is lying more dead than 
alive.” 

” Perhaps it is not very benevolent, so far as he is concerned; but 
I hope he’ll linger a long time,” said Sir Thomas. 

” Oh, so do I! These imbroglios may go on for a long time and 
do nobody any harm. But when a horrible crisis comes, and one 
feels that they must be cleared up!” It was evident that in this 
Lady Markham was not specially considering the sufferings of poor 
Mr. ‘Winterbourn. 

” What does Markham say?” Sir Thomas asked. 

“Say! He does not say anything. He shuffles — you know the 
way he has. He never could stand still upon both of his feet.” 

” And you can’t guess what he means to do?” 

” I think — But who can tell? even with one whom I know so 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAII^ST ITSELF. 


213 

intimately as Markham. I don’t say even in my son, for that does 
not tell for very much.” 

“ Nothing at all,” said the social philosopher. 

” Oh, a little, sometimes. I believe to a certain extent in a kind 
of magnetic sympathy. You don’t, I know. I think, then, so far 
as I can make out, that Markham would rather do nothing at all. 
He likes the status quo well enough. But then he is only one; and 
the other — one can not tell how she might feel.” 

” Nelly is the unknown quantity,” said Sir Thomas; and then 
Lady IVIarkham sent away, hy the hands of the footman, her anxious 
affectionate little billet ” to inquire.” 

Meanwhile, young Gaunt sat down by Frances. On the table 
near them there was a glorious show of crimson, the great dazzling 
red anemones, the last of the season, which Mrs. Gaunt had sent. 
It had been very difficult to find them so late on, he told her; they 
had hunted into the coolest corners where the spring flowers lin- 
gered the longest, his mother quite anxious about it, climbing into 
the little valleys among the hills. “ For you know what you are to 
my mother, ’ ’ he said, with a smile, and then a sigh. Mrs. Gaunt 
had often made disparaging comparisons — comparisons how utterly 
out of the question ! He allowed to himself that this candid counte- 
nance, so opeji and simple, and so full of sympathy, had a charm — 
more than he could have believed; but yet to make a comparison 
between this sister and the other! Nevertheless, it was very con- 
solatory, after the effort he had made at dinner, to lay himself back 
in the soft low chair, with his long limbs stretched out, and talk or 
be talked to, no longer with any effort, with a softening tenderness 
toward the mother who loved Frances, but with whom he had had 
many scenes before he left her, in frantic defense of the woman who 
had broken his heart. 

“Mrs. Gaunt was always so kind to me, ” Frances said, grate- 
fully, a little moisture starting into her eyes. “At the Durants 
there seemed always a little comparison with Tasie; but with your 
mother there was no comparison.” 

“A comparison with Tasie!” He laughed in spite of himself. 

“ Nothing can be so foolish as these comparisons,” he added, not 
thinking of Tasie. 

“Yes, she was older, ” said Frances. “She had a right to be 
more clever. But it was always delightful at the bungalow. Does 
my father go there often now?” 

“ Did he ever go often?” 

“ N — no,” said Frances, hesitating; “ but sometimes in the even- 
ing. I hope Constance makes him go out. I used to have to worry 
him, and often get scolded. No, not scolded — that was not his way; 
but sent off with a sharp word. And then he would relent, and 
come out. ’ ’ 

“ I have not seen very much of Mr. Waring,” Gaunt said. 

“ Then what does Constance do? Oh, it must be such a change 
for her! I could not have imagined such a change. I can’t help 
thinking sometimes it is a great pity that I, who was not used to it, 
nor adapted for it, should have all this — and Constance, who likes 
it, who suits it, should be — banished; for it must be a sort of ban- 
ishment for her, don’t you think?” 


214 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“ I — suppose so. Yes, there could be no surroundings too bright 
for her, ’ ’ he said, dreamily. He seemed to see her notwithstandmg 
walking with him up into the glades of the olive gardens, with her 
face so bright. Surely she had not felt her banishment then! Or 
was it only that the amusement of breaking his heart made up for 
it, for the moment, as his mother said? 

“ Fancy,” said Frances; “lam going to court on Monday — I — 
in a train and feathers. What would they all say? But all the 
time I am feeling like the daw in the peacock’s plumes. They seem 
to belong to Constance. She would wear them as if she were a queen 
herself. She would not perhaps object to be stared at; and she 
would be admired.” 

“ Oh, yes!” 

“ She was, they say, when she 'was presented, so much admired. 
She might have been a maid of honor; but mamma would not. And 
I, a iX)or little brown sparrow, in all the fine feathers — I feel in- 
clined to call out : “I am only Frances. ” But that is not needed, 
is it? when any one looks at me ” — she said, with a laugh. She had 
met with nobody with whom she could be confidential among all 
her new acquaintances. And George Gaunt was a new acquaint- 
ance, too, if she had but remembered; but there w^as in him some- 
thing which she had been used to, something with which she "was 
familiar, a breath of her former life — and that acquaintance with 
.liis name and all about him which makes one feel like an old friend. 
She had expected for so many years to see him, that it appeared to 
her imagination as if she had known him all these years — as if there 
'was scarcely any one with whom she was so familiar in the world. 

He looked at her attentively as she spoke, a little touched, a little 
charmed by this instinctive delicate familiarity, in which he at last, 
having so lately come out of the hands of a true operator, saw, 
whatever Sir Thomas might think, that it 'was not one of their 
tricks. She did not want any compliment from him, even had he 
been capable of giving it. She was as sincere as the day, as little 
troubled about her inferiority as she was convinced of it — the laugh 
with which she spoke had in it a genuine tone of innocent youthful 
mirth, such as had not been heard in that house for long. The 
exhilarating ring of it, so spontaneous, so gay, reached Lady Mark- 
ham and Sir Thomas in their colloquy, and roused them. Frances 
herself had never laughed like that before. Her mother gave a 
glance toward her, smiling. “ The little thing has found her own 
character in the sight of her old friend,” she said; and then rounded 
her little epigram with a sigh. 

“ The young fellow ought to think much of himself to have two 
of them taking that trouble.” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense,” said Lady Markham. “ Do you think 
she is taking trouble? She does not understand what it means.” 

“Do any of them not understand what it means?” asked Sir 
Thomas. He had a large experience in society, and thought he 
knew. But he had little experience out of society, and so, perhaps, 
did not. There are some points in which a woman’s understanding 
is the best. 

The evening had not been unpleasant to any one, not even, per- 
haps, to the love-lorn, when Markham appeared, coming back from 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 215 

Ms dinner-party, a signal to the other gentlemen that it was time for 
them to disappear from theirs. ^ He gave his mother the last news 
of Winterboiirn; and he told Sir Thomas that a division was ex- 
pected, and that he ought to be in the house. “ The poor sufferer ” 
was sinking slowly, Markham said. It was quite imnossible now 
to think of the operation which might perhaps have saved him three 
months since. His sister was with Nelly, who had neither mother 
nor sister of her own; and the long-expected event was thus to come 
off decorously with all the proper accessories. It was a very im- 
portant matter for two at least of the speakers; but this was how 
they talked of it, hiding, perhaps, the anxiety within. Then Mark- 
ham turned to the other group. 

“ Have you got all the feathers and furbelows ready?” he said. 

' “ Do you think there will be any of you visible through them, lit- 
tle Fan?” 

“Don’t frighten the child, Markham. She will do very well. 
She can be as steady as a little rock, and in that case it doesn’t mat- 
ter that she is not tail.” 

“ Oh, tall — as if that were necessary I You are not tall yourself, 
our mother; but you are a very majestic person when you are in 
your war-paint.” 

“ There’s the queen herself, for that matter,” said Sir Thomas. 
“ See her in a procession, and she might be six feet. I feel a mouse 
before her.” He had held once some post about the court, and had 
a riglit to speak. 

“Let us nope Fan will look majestic, too. You should, to carry 
off the effect I shall produce. In ordinary life,” said Markham, 
“ I don’t flatter myself that I am an Adonis; but you should see 
me screwed up into a uniform. No, I’m not in the army. Fan. 
What is my uniform, mother, to please her? A deputy lieutenant, 
or something of that sort. I hope you are a great deal the wiser. 
Fan.” 

“ People always look well in uniform,” said Frances, looking at 
him somewhat doubtfully, on which Markham broke forth into his 
chuckle. “ Wait till you see me, my little dear. Wait till the little 
boys see me on the line of route. They are the true tests of per- 
sonal attraction. Are you coming. Gaunt? Do you feel inclined 
to give those fellows their revenge?” 

Markham had spoken rather low, and at some distance from his 
mother; but the word caught her quick ear. 

“Revenge? What do you mean by revenge? Who is going to 
be levenged?” she cried, 

“Nobody is going to flght a duel, if that is what you mean,” 
said Markham, quietly turning round. “ Gaunt has, for as simple 
as he stands, beaten me at billiards; and I can’t stand under the 
affront. Didn’t you lick me. Gaunt?” 

“ It was an accident,” said Gaunt. “ If that is all, you are very 
welcome to your revenge.” 

“Listen to his mod^esty, which, by the bye, shows a little want 
of tact; for am I the man "to be beaten by an accident?” said Mark- 
ham, with his chuckle of self-ridicule. “ Come along. Gaunt.” 

Lady Markham detained Sir Thomas with a look as he rose to 
accompany them. She gave Captain Gaunt her hand, and a gra- 


216 


A HOUSE UIVIUEr) AGAINST ITSELF. 


cious, almost anxious smile. “ Markham is noted for had hours,” 
she said. “ You are not very strong, and you must not let him 
beguile you into his evil ways.” She rose, too, and took Sir 
Thomas by the arm as the young men went away. “ Did you hear 
what he said? Do you think it w^as only billiards he meant? My 
heart quakes for that poor boy and the poor people he belongs to. 
Don’t you think you could go after them and see what they are 
about?” 

” I will do anything you please. But what good could I do?” 
said Sir Thomas. ” Markham would not put up with any inter- 
ference from me; nor the other young fellow either, for that matter.” 

‘ ‘ But if you were there, if they saw you about, it would restrain 
them; oh, you have always been such a true iriend. If you were 
but there.” 

“ There. Where?” There came before the practical mind of 
Sir Thomas a vision of himself at his sober age dragged into he 
knew not what nocturnal haunts, like an elderly specter, jeered at 
by the pleasure-makers. ” I will do anything to please you,” he 
said, helplessly. “But what can I do? It would be of no use. 
You know yourself that interference never does any good.” 

Frances stood by aghast, listening to this conversation. What 
did it mean? Of what was her mother afraid? Presently, Lady 
Markham took her seat again with a return to her usual smiling 
calm. “You are right, and lam wrong,” she said. ” Of course, we 
can do nothing. Perhaps, as you say, there is no real reason for 
anxiety.” (Frances observed, however, that Sir Thomas had not 
said this.) ‘‘It is because the boy is not well off, and his people 
are not well off — old soldiers, with their pensions, and their sav- 
ings. That is what makes me fear.” 

‘‘ Oh, if that is the case, you need have the less alarm. Where 
there’s not much to lose the risks are lessened, ” Sir Thomas said, 
calmly. 

When he too was gone Frances crept close to her mother. She 
knelt down beside the chair on which Lady Markham sat, grave and 
pale, with agitation in her face. ‘‘ Mother,” she whispered, taking 
her hand and pressing her cheek against it, ‘‘ Markliam is so kind 
— he never would do poor George any harm.” 

‘‘ Oh, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, ‘‘ how can you tell? Mark- 
ham is not a man to be read off like a book. He is very kind — 
which does not hinder him from being cruel, too. He means noi 
harm, perhaps; but when the harm is done what does it matter 
wdiether he meant it or not? And as for the risks being lessened 
because your friend is poor, that only means that he is dispatched 
all the sooner. Markham is like a nian with a fever; he has his fits 
of play, and one of them is on him now.” 

‘‘Do you mean— gambling?” said Frances, growing pale too. 
She did not know very well what gambling was, but it was ruin, 
she had always heard. 

‘‘ Don’t let us talk of it,” said Lady Markham. ‘‘ We can do no 
good; and, to distress ourselves for what we can not prevent, is the 
worst poliey in the world, everybody says. You had better go to 
bed, dear child; I have some letters to write.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


317 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Gaunt did not appear again at Eaton Square for two or three 
days, not, indeed, till after the great event of Frances’ history had 
taken place — the going to court, which had filled her with so many 
alarms. After all, when she got there, she was not frightened at all. 
the sense of humor which was latent in her nature getting the mas- 
tery at the last moment, and the spectacle, such as it was, taking 
all her attention from herself. Lady Markliam’s good taste had 
selected for Frances as simple a dress as was possible, and her orna- 
ments were the pearls which her aunt had given her, which she 
had never been able to look at, save uneasily as spoil. Mrs. Caven- 
dish, however, condescended, which was a wonderful stretch of 
good-nature, to come to Eaton Square to see her dressed, which, 
as everybody knows, is one of the most agreeable parts of the cere- 
mony. Frances had not a number of young friends to fill the 
house with a chorus of admiration and criticism; but the Miss Mon- 
tagues thought it “ almost a duty ” to come, and a number of her 
mother’s friends. These ladies filled the drawing-room, and were 
much more formidable than even the eyes of majesty, preoccupied 
with the sight of many toilets, and probably very tired of Ihem, 
which would have no more than a passing glance for Frances. The 
spectators at Eaton Square took her to pieces conscientiously, 
though they agreed, after each had made her little observation, 
that the ensemble was perfect, and that the power of millinery could 
no further go. The intelligent reader needs not to be informed that 
Frances was all white from her feathers to her shoes. Her pretty 
glow of youthfulness and expectation made the toilet supportable, 
nay, pretty, even in the glare of day. Markham, who was not 
afraid to confront all these fair and critical faces, in his uniform, 
which misbecame, and did not even fit him, and which made hi.s 
insignificance still more apparent, walked round and round his little 
sister with the most perfect satisfaction. “ Are you sure you know 
how to manage that train, little Fan? Do you feel quite up to 
your courtesy?’ he said in a whisper with his chuckle of mirth; but 

• there was a very tender look in the little man’s e^es. He might 

• wrong others; but to Frances, nobody could be so kind or consider- 
ate. Mrs. Cavendish, when she saw him, turned upon her heel and 
■walked otf into the back drawing-room, where she stood for some 
minutes sternly contemplating a picture, and ignoring everybody. 
Markham did not resent this insult. “ She can’t abide me. Fan,” 
he went on. “ Poor lady, I don’t wonder. I was a little brat when 
she knew me. As soon as I go away, she will come back. And I 
am going presently, my dear. I am going to snatch a morsel in 
the dining-room, to sustain nature. I hope you had your sand- 
wiches, Fap? It will take a great deal of nourishment to keep you 
up to that courtesy." He patted her softly on her white shoulder, 
with kindness beaming out of his ugly face. “ I call you a most 
satisfactory production, my dear. Not a beauty, but better— a real 


218 


Jl house divided against itsele. 


nice innocent girl. I should like any fellow to show me a nicer,’' 
he went on wim his short laugh. Though he uttered that chuckle, 
there was something in it that showed Markham’s heart was 
touched. And this was the man whom even his own mother was 
afraid to trust a young man with! It seemed to Frances that it 
was impossible such a thing could be true. 

Mrs. Cavendish, as Markham had predicted, came back as he re- 
tired. Her contemplation of the dress of the debutanie was very 
critical. “Satin is too heavy for you,” she said. “I wonder, 
your mother did not see that silk would have been far more in keep-’ 
mg; but she always liked to overdo. As for my Lord Markham, I 
am glad he will have to look after your mother, and not you, ’ 
Frances; for the very look of a man like that contaminates a young- 
girl. Don’t say to me that he is your brother, for he is not your 
brother. Considering my age and yours, I surely ought to know 
best. Turn round a little. There is a perceptible crease across the 
middle of your shoulder, and I don’t quite like the hang of this 
skirt. But one thing looks very well, and that is your pearls. They 
have been in the family I can’t tell j^ou how long. My grandmother 
gave them to me.” 

‘ ‘ Mamma insisted I should wear them, and nothing else. Aunt 
Charlotte.” 

“ Yes, I daresay. You have nothing else good enough to go with 
them, most likely. And Lady Markham knows a good thing very 
well, when she sees it. Have you been put through ad that you 
have to do, Frances? Remember to keep your right hand quite 
free; and take care your train doesn’t get in your way. Oh, why 
is it that your poor father is not here to see you, to go with you? 
It would be a very ditferent thing then.” 

“ Nothing would make papa go. Aunt Charlotte. Do you think 
he would dress himself up like Markham, to be laughed at?” 

“ I promise you, nobody would laugh at my brother,” said Mrs. 
Cavendish. “ As for Lord Markham — ” But she bit her lip, and 
forbore. She spoke to none of the other ladies, who swarmed like 
numerous bees in the room, keeping up a hum in the air. But she 
made very formal acknowledgments to Lady Markham as she went 
away. “ I am much obliged to you for letting me come to see 
Frances dressed. She looks very well on the whole, though, per- 
haps, I should have adopted a different style, had it been in my 
hands.” 

“My dear Charlotte,” cried Lady Markham, ignoring this un- 
OTacious conclusion, “how can you speak of letting you come? 
You know wo are only too glad to see you whenever you will come. 
And I hope you liked the effect of your beautiful pearls. What a 
charming present to give the child; I thought it so kind of you.” 

“ So long as Frances understands that they are family orna- 
ments,” said Mrs. Cavendish stiffly, rejecting all acknowledgments. 

There was a little murmur and titter when she went away. “ Is 
it Medusa in person?” “ It is Mrs. Cavendish, the wife of the great 
Q. C.” “ It is Frances’ aunt, and she does not like any remark.” 

“It is my dear sister-in-law,” said Lady Markham. “She does 
not love me; but she is kind to Frances, which covers a multitude 
of sins.” “And very rich,” said another lady, “ which covers a 


Jl house divided against itself. 


219 

multitude more.’* This put a little bitterness into the conversation 
to Frances, standing there in her fine clothes, and not knowing how 
to interfere; and it was a relief to her when Markham, tliough she 
could not blame the whispering girls who called him a guy, came 
in shuffling and smiling, with a glance and nod of encouragement 
to his little sister to take the mother down-stairs to her carriage. 
After that, all was a moving phantasmagoria of color and novel life, 
and nothing clear. 

And it was not until after this great day that Captain Gaunt ap- 
peared again. The ladies received him with reproaches for his ab- 
sence. “I expected to see you yesterday at least,” said Lady Mark- 
1 ham. “You don’t care for fine clothes, as we women do; but 
^ five o’clock tea, after a drawing-room, is a fine sight. You have no 
idea how grand we were, and how much you have lost.” 

Captain Gaunt responded with a very grave, indeed melancholy 
smile. He was even more dejected than when he made his first 
appearance. Then his melancholy had been unalloyed, and not 
without something of that tragic satisfaction in his own sufferings 
which the victims of the heart so often enjoy. But now there were 
complications of some kind, not so easily to be understood. He 
smiled a very serious evanescent smile. ‘ ‘ I shall have to lose still 
more,” he said, “ for I think I must leave London — sooner than I 
thought.” 

“Oh,” cried Frances, whom this concerned the most; “leave 
London! You were to stay a month.” 

“Yes; but my month seems to have run away before it has be> 
gun,” he said confusedly. Then finding Lady Markham’s eye 
upon him, he added: “ I mean, things are very different from what 
I expected. My father thought I might do myself good by seeing 
people who — might push me, he supposed. I am not good at push- 
ing myself,” he said with an abrupt and harsh laugh. 

I understand that. You are too modest. It is a defect, as well 
as the reverse one of being too bold. And you have not met — the 
people you hoped?” 

“ It is not exactly that either. My father’s old friends have been 
kind enough; but London, perhaps, is not the place for a poor sol- 
dier.” He stopped, with again a little quiver of a smile. 

“That is quite true,” said Lady Markham gravely. “ I enter 
into your feelings. You don’t see that the game is worth the can- 
dle? I have heard so many people say so — even among those who 
Avere very well able to push themselves. Captain Gaunt. I have 
heard them say that any little thing they might have gained was 
not worth the expenditure and trouble of a season in London — be- 
sides all the risks.” 

Captain Gaunt listened to this with his discoursed look. ^ He 
made no reply to Lady Markham, but turned to Frances with a 
sort of smile. “Do you remember,” he said, “I told you my 
mother had found a cheap place in Switzerland such as she delights 
in? I think I shall go and join them there.” 

“Oh, I am very sorry,” said Frances, Avith a countenance of 
unfeigned regret. “ No doubt Mrs. Gaunt aauU be glad to have you; 
but she will be sorry too. Don’t you think she would rather you 


220 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


stayed your full time in London, and enjoyed yourself a little? I 
feel sure she would like that best.” 

” But I don’t tiiink I am enjoying myself,” he said, with the air 
of a man who would like to be persuaded. He had, perhaps, been 
a little piqued by Lady Markham’s way of taking him at his word. 

” But there must be a great deal to enjoy,” said Frances; 
” every one says so. They think there is no place like London. 
You can not have exhausted everything in less than a week. Cap- 
tain Gaunt. You have not given it a fair trial. Your mother and 
the ^neral, they would not like you to run away.” 

“Kun away, no,” he said with a little start; ‘‘that is what I 
should not do.” 

‘‘But it would be running away,” said Frances, with all the 
zeal of a partisan. “ You think you are ncit doing any good, and 
you forget that they wished you to have a little pleasure too. They 
think a great deal of London. The general used to talk to me, 
wh( n I thought I should never see it. He used to tell me to wait 
till I had seen London; everything was there. And it is not 
often you have the chance. Captain Gaunt. It may be a long time 
before you come from India again; and think if you told any one 
out there you had only been a week in London!” 

He listened to her very devoutly, with an air of giving great 
weight to those simple arguments. They were more soothing to his 
pride at least than the way in which her mother took him at his 
word. 

‘‘Frances speaks,” said Lady Markham — and while she spoke, 
the sound of Markham’s hansom was heard dashing up to the door 
— ” Frances speaks as if she were in the interest of all the people 
who prey upon visitors in London. I think, on the whole, Captain 
Gaunt, though I regret your going, that my reason is with you 
rather than with her. And, my dear, if Captain Gaunt thinks this 
is right, it is not for his friends to persuade him against his better 
judgment.” 

‘‘ What is Gaunt’s better judgment going to do?” said Markham. 
‘‘ It’s always alarming to hear of a man’s better judgment. What 
is it all about?” 

Lady Markham looked up in her son’s face with great seriousness 
and meaning. ‘‘ Captain Gaunt,” she said, ‘‘ is talking of leaving 
London; which, if he finds his stay unprofitable and of little ad- 
vantage to him, though I should regret it very much, I should 
think him wise to do. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Gaunt leaving London? Oh, no! He is taking you in. A 
man who is a ladies’ man likes to say that to ladies in order to be 
coaxed to stay. That is at the bottom of it, I’ll be bound. And 
where Was our hero going, if he had his way?” 

Frances thought that there were signs in Gaunt .of failing temper; 
so she hastened to explain. ‘‘ He was going to Switzerland, Mark- 
ham, to a place Mrs. Gaunt knows of, where she is to be.” 

‘‘ To Switzerland!” Markham cried— ” the dullest place on the 
face of the earth. What would you do there, my gallant captain? 
Climb? or listen all day long to those who recount their climbings, 
or those who plan them — all full of insane self-complacency, as if 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 221 

there was the highest morality in climbing mountains. Were you 
going in for the mountains, Fan?” 

” Frances was pleading for London — a very unusual fancy for 
her,” said Lady Markham. “The very young are not afraid of 
responsibility; but I am, at my age. I could not venture to 
recommend Captain Gaunt to stay.” 

“ I only meant — I only thought — ” Frances stammered and hung 
her head a little. Had she been indiscreet? Her abashed look 
caught young Gaunt’s eye. Why should she be abashed? and on 
his account? It made his heart stir a little, that heart which had 
been so crushed and broken, and, he thought, pitched away into a 
corner; but at that moment he found it again stirring quite warm 
and vigorous in his breast. 

“ I always said she was full of sense,” said Markliam. “ A little 
sister is an admirable institution. And her wisdom is all the more 
delighiful that she doesn’t know what sense it is.” He patted 
Frances on the shoulder as he spoke. “ It wouldn’t do, would it. 
Fan, to have him run away?” 

“ If there was any question of that,” Gaunt said, with something 
of a defiant air. 

“ And to Switzerland,” said Markliam vith a chuckle. “ Shall 
I tell you my experience. Gaunt? I was thefe for my sins once, 
with the mother here. Among all her admirable qualities, my 
mamma has that of demanding few sacrifices in this way, so that a 
man is bound in honor to make one now and then.” 

‘ ' Markham, when you are going to say what you know I will 
disapprove, you always put in a little flattery — which silences me.” 

He kissed his hand to her with a short laugh. “The place,” 
he said, ‘ ‘ was in possession of an athletic band, in roaring spirits 
and tremendous training, men and women all the same. You could 
scarcely tell the creatures one from another — all burned red in the 
faces of them, worn out of all shape and color in the clothes of 
them. They clamped along the passages in their big boots from 
two o’clock till five every morning. They came back, perspiring, in 
the afternoon — a procession of old clothes, all complacent, as if they 
had done the finest action in the world. And the rest of us sur- 
rounded them with a circle of worshipers, till they clamped upstairs 
again, fortunately very early to bed. Then a faint sort of life began 
for 7WUS autres. We came out and admired the stars and drank 
our coffee in peace — short-lived peace, for, as ever 3 '^body had been 
up at two in the morning, the poor beggars naturally wanted to 
get to bed. You are an athletic chap, so you might like it, and 
perhaps attain canonization by going up Mont Blanc.” 

“My mother — is not in one of those mountain centers,” said 
Gaunt with a faint smile. 

“ Worse and worse,” said Markham. “We went through that 
experience too. In the non-climbing places the old ladies have it 
all their own way. You will dine at two, my poor martyr; you 
will have tea at six with cold meat. The table-cloths and napkins 
will last a week. There will be hone^ with flies in it on every 
table. All about the neighborhood, mild constitutionals will meet 
you at every hour in the day. There will be gentle raptures over a 
new view. ‘ Have you seen it. Captain Gaunt? Do come with 


222 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF, 


us to-morrow, and let us show it you; gmte the finest view ’ — of 
Pilatus, or Monte Rosa, or the Jungfrau, or whatever it may hap- 
pen to he. And meanwhile we shall all be playing our little game 
comfortably at home. We wiU give you a thought now and then. 
Frances will run to the window and say : ‘ I thought that was Cap- 
tain Gaunt’s step;’ and the mother will explain to Sir Thomas: 

‘ Such a pity our poor young friend found that London did not 
suit him.’ ” 

“Well, Markham!” said his mother with firmness, “if ’Captain 
Gaunt found that London did not suit him, I should think all the 
more highly of him that he withdrew in time. ’ ’ 

Perhaps the note was too forcibly struck. Gaunt drew himself 
slightly up. “There is nothing so very serious in the matter, 
after all. London may not suit me; but still I do not suppose it 
will do me any harm.” 

Frances looked on at this triangular duel with eyes that acquired 
gradually consciousness and knowledge. She saw ere long that 
there was much more in it than met the eye. At first, her appeal 
to young Gaunt to remain had been made on the impulse of the 
moment and without thought. Now she remained silent, only with 
a faint gesture of protest when Markham brought in her name. 

“ Let us go to luncheon,” said her mother. “ I am glad to hear 
you are not really in earnest, Captain Gaunt; for of course we 
should all be very sorry if you went away. London is a siren to 
whose wiles we all give in. I am as bad myself as any one can be. 
I never make any secret of my affection for town; but there are 
some with whose constitutions it never agrees, who either take it 
too seriously or with too much passion. We old stagers get very 
moderate and methodical in our dissipations, and make a little go a 
long way.” 

But there was a chill at table; and Lady Markham was “ not in 
her usual force.” Sir Thomas said, who came in as usual as they 
were going down-stairs, “ Anything the matter? Oh, Captain 
Gaunt going away? Dear me, so soon! I am surprised. It takes 
a ^reat deal of self-control to make a young fellow leave town at 
this time of the year.” 

“ It was only a project,” said poor young Gaunt. He was pleased 
to be persuaded that it was more than could be expected of him. 
Lady Markham gave Sir Thomas a look which made that devoted 
friend uncomfortable; but he did not know what he had done to 
deserve it. And so Captain Gaunt made up his mind to stay. 


! 

' CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“Yes, I wish you had not said anything, Frances; not that it 
matters very much. I don’t suppose he was in earnest, or, at all 
events, he would have changed his mind before evening. But, my 
dear, this poor young fellow is not able to follow the same course as 
Markham’s friends do. They are at it all the year round, now in 
town, now somewhere else. Tliey bet and play, and throw their 
money about; and at the end of the year they are not very much the 
worse — or at least that is what he always tells me. One time they 


Jl house divided agaiitst itself. 22S 

lose, but another time they gain. And then they are men who have 
time, and money more or less. But when a young man with a lit- 
tle money comes among them, he may ruin himself before he 
knows.” 

“lam very sorry,” said France. “It is difficult to believe that 
Markham could hurt any one. ” 

Her mother ^ave her a grateful look. “Dear Markham!” she 
said. “ To think that he should be so good — and yet — It gives 
me great pleasure, Frances, that you should appreciate your 
brother. Your father never did so — and all of them, all the Wa- 
rings — But it is understood between us, is it not, that we are not to 
touch upon that subject?” 

“ Perhaps it would be painful, mamma. But how am I to under 
stand, unless I am told?” 

“ You have never been told, then— your father — ? But I might 
have known he would say very little; he always hated explanations. 
My dear,” said Lady Markham, with evident agitation, “ if I were 
to enter into that story, it would inevitably take the character of a 
self-defense; and I can’t do that to my own child. It is the worst 
of such unfortunate circumstances as ours that you must judge 
your parents, and find one or other in the wrong. Oh, yes; I do not 
deceive myself on that subject. And you are a partisan in your 
nature. Con was more or less of a cynic, as people become who 
are bred up in society, as she was. She could believe we were 
both wrong, calmly, without any particular feeling. But you, of 
your nature, Frances, you would be a partisan.” 

“ I hope not, mamma. I should be the partisan of noth sides,” 
said Frances, almost under her breath. 

Lady Markham rose and gave her a kiss. “ Remain so, ” she 
said, “ my dear child. I will say no harm of him to you, as I am 
sure he has said no harm of me. How, let us think no more of 
Markham’s faults, nor of poor young Gaunt’s danger, nor of — ” 

“ Danger?” said Frances, with an anxious look. 

“ If it were less than danger, would I have said so much, do you 
think?” 

“ But, mamma, pardon me, if it is real danger, ought you not to 
say more?” 

“ 'What! for the sake of another woman’s son, betray and forsake 
my own? How can I say to him in so many words; Take care of 
Markham; avoid Markham and his friends? I have said it in hints 
as much as I dare. Yes, Frances, I would do a great deal for 
another woman’s son. It would be the strongest plea. But in this 
case, how can I do more? Never mind; fate will work itself out 
quite independent of you and me. And here are people coming — 
Claude, probably, to see if you have changed your mind about him, 
or whether I have heard from Constance. Poor boy; he must have 
one of you two.” 

“ I hope not,” said Frances seriously. 

“But I afn sure of it,” cried her mother with a smile. “We 
shall see which of us is the better prophet. But this is not Claude. 
I hear the sweep of a woman’s train. Hush!” she said, holding up 
a finger. She rose as the door opened, and then hastened forward 


224 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

with an astonislied exclamation: “Nelly!” and held out both her 
hands. 

“ You did not look for me?” said Mrs. Winterbourn with a de- 
fiant air. 

“ No, indeed; I did not look for you. And so fine, and looking 
so well. He must have taken an unexpected turn for the better, 
and you have come to tell me. ’ ’ • 

“ Yes, am I not fine?” said Nelly, looking down upon her beau- 
tiful dress with a curious air, half pleasure, half scorn. “ It is almost 
new; I have never worn it before.” 

“ Sit down here beside me, my dear, and tell me all about it. 
When did this happy change occur?” 

I “ Happy! For whom?” she asked with a harsh little laugh. 

■ “ No, Lady Markham, there is no change for the better: the other 
way — they say there is no hope. It will not be very long, they say, 
oefore — ” 

“ And Nelly, Nelly! you here, in 3mur fine new dress,” 

“ Yes, it seems ridiculous, does it not?” she said, laughing again. 
“ I away — going out to pay visits in my best gown, and my hus- 
band — dying. Well! I know that if I had stayed any longer in that 
dreary house without any air, and with Sarah Winterbourn, I 
should have died. Oh, you don’t know what it is. To be shut up 
there, and never hear a step except the doctor’s, or Hoberts’ carry- 
ing up the beef-tea. So I burst out of prison, to save my life. 
You may blame me, if you like, but it was to save my life, neither 
less nor more. ’ ’ 

“ Nelly, my dear,” said Lady Markham, taking her hand, “ there 
is nothing wonderful in your coming to see so old a friend as I am. 
It is quite natuial. To whom should ^’’ou go in j^our trouble, if not 
to 3'our old friends?” 

Upon which Nelly laughed again in an excited, lij’-sterical way. 
“ I have been on quite a round,” she said. “ You alwaj’-s did scold 
me. Lady Markham; and I know you will do so again. I was de- 
termined to ^how myself once more before — the waters went oyer 
my head, I can come out now in my pretty gown. But afterwards, 
If I did «uch a thing, everj'body would think me mad. Now you 
know why I have come, and jmu can scold me as much as you 
please. But I have done it, and it can’t be undone. It is a kind 
of farewell visit, jmu know,” she added in her excited tone. “ After 
this 1 shall disappear into — crape and affliction, A widow! What 
a horrible word. Think of me, Nelly St. John; me, a widow! 
Isn’t it horrible, horrible? That is what they will call me, Mark- 
ham and the other men — the widow. I know how they will speak, 
as well as if I heard them. Lady Markham, they will call me that, 
and you know wdiat they will mean.” 

“Nelly, Nelly, my poor child!” Lady Markham held her hand 
and patted it softly with her own. “ Oh, Nelly, jmu are very im- 
prudent, very sill)'’. You will shock everybody, and make them 
talk. You ought not to have come out now. If you had sent for 
me, I would have gone to you in a moment. ” ^ 

“ It was not that I wanted. I wanted just to bo like others for 
once— before — I don’t seem to care what will happen to me — 
jifterward. What do they do to a W’onian, Lady Markham, when 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


325 


her husband dies? They would not let her bury herself wdth him, 
or burn herself, or any of those sensible things, * What do they do, 
Lady Markham? Brand her somewhere in her flesh with a red- 
hot iron — with Widow, written upon her flesh?” 

“ My dear, you must care for poor Mr. Winterbourn a great 
deal niore than you were aware, or you would not feel this so bit- 
terly. Nelly — ” 

“Hush!” she said, with a sort of solemnity. “ Don’t say that. 
Lady Markham. Don’t talk about what I feel. It is all so miser- 
able, I don’t know wdiat I am doing. To think that he should be 
my husband, and I just boiling with life, and longing to get free, 
to get free : I that was born to be a good woman, if I could, if you 
would all have let me, if I had not been made to — Look here! I 
am going to speak to that little girl. You can say the other thing 
afterward. I know you will. You can make it look so right — so 
right. Frances, if you get persuaded to marry Claude Bamsay or 
any other man that you don’t care for, remember, you’ll just be 
like me. Look at me, dressed out, paying visits, and my husband 
dying. Perhaps he may be dead when I get home, ” She paused a 
moment with a nervous shivering and drew her summer cloak 
closely around her. “ He is going to die, and I am running about 
the streets. It is horrible, isn’t it? He doesn’t want me, and I 
don’t want him; and next week I shall be all m crape, and branded 
on my shoukler or somewhere — where. Lady Markham? all for a 
man who — all for a man that — ” 

“ Nelly, Nelly! for heaven’s sake — at least respect the child.” 

“It is because I respect her that I say anything. Oh, it is all 
horrible! And already the men and everybody are discussing. 
What will Nelly do? The widow, what will she do?” 

Then the excited creature suddenly, without warning, broke out 
into sobbing and tears. “ Oh, don’t think it is for grief,” she said, 
a9 Frances instinctively came to^ward her; “ it’s only the excitement, 
the horror of it, the feeling that it is coming so near. I never was 
in the house with death, never, that I can remember. And I will 
be the chief person, aon’t you know? They will want me to do 
all sorts of things. What do you do -when you are a widow. Lady 
Markham? Have you to give orders for the funeral, and say what 
sort of a — coffin there is to be, and — all that?” 

“ Nelly, Nelly! Oh, for God’s sake, don’t say those dreadful 
things. You know you will not be troubled about anything, least 
of all — And my clear, my dear, recollect your husband is still 
alive. It is dreadful to talk of details such as those for a living 
man.” 

“ Most likely,” she said, looking up with ^ shiver, “ he will be 
dead when I get home. Oh, I wish it might all be over, everything, 
before I go home. Couldn’t you hide me somewhere. Lady Mark- 
ham! Save me from seeing him and all those — aetails, as you call 
them. I can not bear it; and I have no mother nor any one to 
cjorne to me — nobody, nobody but Sarah Winterbourn.” 

“I will go home with you, Nelly; I will take you back, my 
dear. Frances, take care of her till I get my linnet. My poor 
cliikl, compose yourself. Try and be calm. You must be calm, 
and bear it,” Lady Markham said. 

8 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIJTST ITSELF. 


220 

Frances with alarm found lierself left alone with this strangF 
being — not much older than herself, and yet thrown amid such 
tragic elements. She stood by her, not knowing how to approach 
the subject of her thoughts, or indeed any subject — for to talk to 
her of common things was impossible. Mrs. Winterbourn, how- 
ever, did not turn toward Frances. Her sobbing ended suddenly, 
as it had begun. She sat with her head upon her hands, gazing at 
the light. After a while, she said, though without looking round. 
“You once oifered to sit up with me, thinking, or pretending, I 
don’t know which, that I was sitting up with him all night. Would 
you have done so, if you had been in my place?” 

“I think — I don’t know,” said Frances, checking herself. 

“You would — you are not straightforward enough to say it — I 
know you would; and in your heart you think I am a bad creat- 
ure, a woman without a heart. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think so,” said Frances. “You must have a heart, or 
you would not be so unhappy.” 

“Do you know w’^hat I am unhappy about? About myself. I 
am not thinking of him; he married me to please himself, not me; 
and I am thinking of mj’-self, not him. It is all fair. You would 
do the same if you married like me.” 

Frances made no reply. She looked with awe and pity at this 
miserable excitement and wretchedness,^ which was so unlike any 
thing her innocent soul knew. 

“ You don’t answer,” said Nelly. “ You think you never w^ould 
have married like me. But how can you tell? If y^ou had an offer 
as good as Mr. Winterbourn, your mother would make you marry 
him. I made a great match, don’t you know? And if you ever 
have it in your power. Lady Markham will make short work with 
your objections. You will just do as other people have done. 
Claude Ramsay is not so rich as Mr. Winterbomn; but I suppose 
he will be your fate, unless Con comes back and takes liim. which 
is, very likely, what she will do. Oh, are you ready. Lady Mark- 
h.-im? It is a pity you should give yourself so much trouble; for, 
ymu see, I am quite composed now, and ready to go home.’^’^ 

“Come, then, my dear Nelly. It is better you should lose no 
time.” Lady Markham paused to say: “ I shall probably be back 
quite soon; but if I don’t come, don’t be alarmed,” in Frances^ ear^ 

The girl went to the window and w^atched Nelly sweep out to her 
carriage as if nothing could ever happen to her. The sight of the. 
servants and of the few passers-by had restored her in a moment 
to herself. Frances stood and pondered for some time at the win- 
dow. Nelly’s was an agitating figure to burst into her quiet life.. 
She did not need the lesson it taught; but yet it filled her with 
trouble and awe. This brilliant surface of society, what tragedies 
lay underneath! She scarcely dared to follow the young wife iu 
imagination to h3r home; but she felt with her the horror of the ap- 
proaching death. The dread interval when the event was coming, 
the still more dread moment after, when all shrinking and tremb- 
ling in her youth and loneliness, she would live sid'e by side with 
the dead, whom she had never loved, to whom no faithful bond had 
united her — It was not till another carriage drew up) and some 
one got out of it, that Frances retreated, not without a very differ- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIUST ITSELF. 


227 


«nt sort of alarm, from the window — some one coming to call, she 
tlid not see whom, one of those wonderful people who came to talk 
over with her mother other people whom Frances did not know. 
How was she to find any subject on which to talk to them? Her 
anxiety was partially relieved by seeing that it was Claude who 
came in. He explained that Lady Someone had dropped him at the 
door, having picked him up at some other place where they had 
both been calling. “There is a little east in the wind, ” he said, 



up the collar of his coat. 


“ Was that Nelly Winterbourn I saw driving away from the 
door? I thought it was Nelly. And when he is dying, with not 
many hours to live. ” 

“And why should not she come to mamma?” said Frances. 
■“ She has no mother of lier own.” 

Ah,” said Ramsay, looking at her keenly, “ I see what you 
mean. She has no mother of her own; and therefore she comes to 
Markham’s, which is next best. ’ ’ 

“ I said to my mother,” said Frances indignantly. “ I don’t see 
what Markham has to do with it.” 

All the same, I shouldn’t like my wife to be about the streets, 
going to — any one’s mother, when I was dying.” 

“ It would be right enough,” cried Frances, hot and indignant, 
“if you had married a woman who did not care for you.” She 
forgot, in the heat of her partisanship, that she was admitting too 
much. But Claude did not remember, any more than she. 

“ Oh, come,” he said, “ Miss Waring, Frances. (May I call you 
Frances? It seems unnatural to call you Miss Waring, for, though 
I only saw you for the first time a little while ago, I have known 
you all your life.) Do you think it’s quite fair to compare me to 
Winterbourn? He was fifty when he married Nelly, a fellow quite 
^ised up. At all events, I am young, and never was fast; and I 
don’t see,” he added pathetically, “ why a woman shouldn’t be able 
to care for me.” 

“Oh, I did not mean that,” cried Frances with penitence; “I 
only meant — ” 

“ And you shouldn’t,” said Claude, shaking his head, “ pay so 
much attention to what Nelly says. She makes herself out a martyr 
now; but she was quite willing to marry Winterbourn. She was 
quite pleased. It was a great match; and now, she is going to get 
the good of it.” 

“ If being very unhappy is getting the good of it — ” 

•“ Oh, unhappyl” said Claude. It was evident he held Mrs. 
Wmterbourn’s unhappiness lightly enough. “ I’ll tell you what,” 
lie said, “ talking of unliappiness, I saw another friend of yours 
the other day who was unhappy, if you like — that young soldier- 
fellow, the Indian man. What do you call him? — Grant? No; 
that’s a Nile man. Gaunt. Now, if Lady Markham had taken 
him in hand — ” 

“ Captain Gaunt,” said Frances in alarm; “what has happened 
to him, Mr, Ramsay? Is he ill? Is he — ” Her face fiushed with 
-anxiety, and tlien grew pale. 

“I can’t say exactly,” said Claude; “for I am not in his coii- 
Udence; but I should say he had lo. t his money, or something of 


22S 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


that sort. I don’t frequent those sort of places in a general way; 
but sometimes, if I’ve been out in the evening, if there’s no east in 
the wind, and no rain or fog, I just look in for a moment, I rather 
think some of those fellows had been punishing that poor innocent 
Indian man. V\^hen a stranger comes among them, that’s a way 
they have. One feels dreadfully sorry for the man; but what can 
you do?” 

“ What can you do? Oh, anything, rather than stand by,’’ cried 
Frances excited by sudden fears, ” and see — and see — I don’t 
know what you mean, Mr. Kamsay? Is it gambling? Is that what 
you mean?” 

“You should speak to Markham,” he replied. “Markham’s 
deep in all that sort of thing. If any body could interfere, it Avould 
be Markham. But I don’t see how even he could interfere. He is 
not the fellow’s keeper; and what could he say? The other fellows 
are gentlemen; they don’t cheat, or that sort of thing. Only, when, 
a man has not much money, or not the heart to lose it like a man — ” 

“ Mr. Ramsay, you don’t know anything about Captain Gaunt,” 
cried Frances, with hot indignation and excitement. “ I don’t 
understand what you mean. He has the heart for — whatever he 
may have to do. He is not like you people, who talk about every- 
body, who know everybody. But he has been in action; he has 
distinguished himself; he is not a nobody like — ” 

“You mean me,” said Claude, “ So far as being in action goes, 
I am a nobody of course. But I hope if I w’ent in for play and that 
sort of thing, I would bear my losses without looking as ghastly as 
a skeleton. That is where a man of the world, however little you 
may lliink of us, has the better of people out of society. But 
that’s not the question. I only tell you, so that, if you can do any- 
thing to get hold of him, to keep him from going to the bad — ” 

“ To the — bad!” she cried. Her face grew pale, and something 
appalling, an indistinct vision of horrors, dimly appeared before 
Frances’ eyes. She seemed to see not only George Gaunt, but his 
mother w^eeping, his father looking on with a startled miserable 
face. “Oh,” she cried, trying to throw off the impression, “you 
don’t know what you are saying. George Gaunt would never do 
anything that is bad. You are making some dreadful mistake, or — 
Oh, Mr, Ramsay, couldn’t you tell him, if you know il is so bad, 
before — tell him — ?” 

“What!” cried Claude, horror-struck, “I tell — a fellow I 
scarcely know! He would have a right to — kick me, or something 
—or at least to tell me to mind my own business. No; but you 
might speak to Markham — Markham is the only man wiio perhaps 
might interfere.” 

“ Oh, Markham! always Markham! Oh, I wish any one would 
tell me what Markham has to do with it, ’ ’ cried Frances with a 
moan. 

“That’s just one of his ways,” said Ramsay calmly. “They 
say it doesn't tell much one w^ay or other, but Markham can’t live 
without play. Don’t you think, as Lady Markham does not come 
in, that you might give me a cup of tea?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


229 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Constance Waring had not been enjoying herself in Bordi- 
ghera. Her amusement indeed came to an end with the highly ex* 
citing yet disagreeable scene which took place between herself and 
young Gaunt the day before he went away. It is late to recur to 
this, so much having passed in the meantime; but it really was the 
only thing of note that happened to her. The blank negative with 
which she had met his suit, the air of surprise, almost indignation, 
with which his impassioned appeal was received, confounded poor 
young Gaunt. He asked her, with a simplicity that sprung out of 
despair, “Did you not know then? Were you not aware? Is it 
possible that you w^ere not — prepared?” 

“ For what. Captain Gaunt?” Constance asked, fixing him with 
a haughty look. 

He returned that look with one that would have cowed a weaker 
woman. “ Did you not know that I — loved you?” he said. 

Even she quailed a little. “ Oh, as for that, Captain Gaunt? a 
man must be responsible for his own follies of that kind. I did 
not ask you to — care for me, as you say. I thought, indeed, that 
you would have the discretion to see that anything of the kind be- 
tween us was out of the question.” 

“ Why?” he asked, almost sternly; and Constance hesitated a lit- 
tle, finding it perhaps not so easy to reply. 

‘ ‘ Because, ’ ’ she said after a pause, with a faint fiush, which 
showed that the effort cost her something — ‘ ‘ because — we belong to 
two different worlds — because all our habits and modes of living 
are different. ” By this time she began to grow a little indignant 
that he should give her so much trouble. “ Because you are Cap- 
tain Gaunt, of the Indian service, and I am Constant Waring,” 
she said with angry levity. 

He grew deadly red with fierce pride and shame. 

“ Because you are of the higher class, and I of the lower,” he 
said. “ Is that what you mean? Yet, I am a gentleman, and one 
can not well be more.” 

To this sh(? made no reply, but moved away from where she had 
been standing to listen to him, and returned to her chair. They 
were on the loggia, and this sudden movement left him at one end, 
while she returned to the other. He stood for a time following her 
with his eyes; then, having watched the angry abandon with which 
she threw herself into her seat, turning her head away, he came a 
little closer with a certain sternness in his aspect. 

“ Miss Waring,” he said, “ notwithstanding the distance between 
us, you have afiowed me to be your— companion for some time 
past.” 

“ Yes,” she said. “ What then? There was no one else, either 
lor me or for you.” 

“ That, then, was the sole reason?” 

“Captain Gaunt,” she cried, “what is the use of all this? We 


230 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


were thrown in each other’s way. I meant nothing more; if you 
did, it was your own fault. You could not surely expect that I 
should marry you and go to India with you? It is absurd — it is 
ridiculous,” she cried with a hot blush, throwing back her head, 
lie saw with suddenly quickened perceptions that the suggestion 
filled her with contempt and shame. And the young man’s veins 
tingled as if fire was in them; the rage of love despised shook his 
very soul. 

“And why?” he cried; “and why?” his voice tremulous with 
^ passionu “ What is ridiculous in that? It may be ridiculous that I 
should have believed in a girl like you. I may have been a vain 
weak fool to do it, not to know that I was only a plaything for 
your amusement; but it never could be ridiculous to think that a 
woman might love and marry an honorable man.” 

He paused several times to command his voice, and she listened 
impatiently, not looking at him, clasping and unclasping her hands. 

“ It would be ridiculous in me,” she cried. “ You don’t know 
me, or you never would have dreamed — Captain Gaunt, this had 
better end. It is of no use lashing yourself to fury, or me either. 
Think the worst of me you can; it will be all. the better for you — it 
will make you hate me. Yes, I have been amusing myself; and so. 
I supposed, were you too.” 

“ No,” he said, “ you could not think that.” 

She turned round and gave him one look, then averted her eyes 
again, and said no more. 

“ You did not think that,” he cried vehemently. “ You knew 
it was death to me, and you did not mind. You listened and 
smiled, and led me on. You never checked me by a word, or gave 
me to understand! Oh,” he cried with a sudden change of tone, 
■“ Constance, if it is India, if it is only India, you have but to hold 
up a finger, and I will give up India without a word!” 

He had suddenly come close to her again. A wild hope had 
blazod up in him. He made as though he would throw himself at 
her feet. She lifted her hand hurriedly, to forbid this action. 

“ Don’t,” she cried sharply. “ Men are not theatrical nowadays. 
It is nothing to me whether you go to India or stay at home. I 
have told you already I never thought of anything beyond friend- 
ship, Why should not we have amused each other, t nd no harm? 
If I have done you any harm, I am sorry; but it will .only be for a 
very short time.” 

He had turned away, stung once more into bitterness, and had 
. tried to say something in reply; but his strength had not been equal 
to his intention, and in the strong revulsion of feeling, the young 
man leaned against the wall of the loggia, hiding his face in his 
hands. 

There was a little pause. Then Constance turned round half 
stealthily, to see why there was no reply. Her heart perhaps, 
smote her a little, when she saw that attitude of despair. She rose, 
and after a moment’s hesitation, laid her hand lightly on his shoul- 
der. “ Captain Gaunt, don’t vex j^ourself like that. I am not 
worth it. I never thought that any one could be so much in earnest 
about me.” 

“ Constance,” he cried, turning round quickly upon her, “ I am 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 231 

all in earnest, I care for nothing in the world hut you. Oh, say 
that you were hasty — say that you will give me a little hope!” 

She shook her head. ” I think,” she said, ” that all the time you: 
must have mistaken me for Frances, If I had not come, you would 
have fallen in love with her, and she with you.” 

Don’t insult me, at least!” he cried. 

“Insult you — by saying that wy sister — ! You forget yourself. 
Captain Gaunt. If my sister is not good enough for you, I wonder 
whom you do think good enough. She is better than I am; far better 
— in that way.” 

“ There is only one woman in the world for me; I don^t care if 
there was no other,” he said. 

“That is benevolent toward the rest of the world, ” said Con- 
stance, recovering her composure. “Do you know,” she said 
gravely, “I think it will be much better for you to go away. I 
hope we may eventually be good friends; but not just at present. 
Please go. I should like to part friends; and I should like you to 
take a parcel for Frances, as you are going to London; and to see 
my mother. But, for Heaven’s sake, go away now. A walk will 
do you good, and the fresh air. You will see things in their proper 
aspect. Don’t look at me as if you could kill me. What I am 
saying is quite true.” 

“A walk,” he repeated with unutterable scorn, “will do me 
good!” 

“ Yes,” she said calmly. “ It will do you a great deal ef good.. 
And change of air and scene will soon set you all right. Oh, I 
know very well what I am saying. But pray, go now. Papa will 
make his appearance in about ten minutes; and you don’^t want to 
make a contidant of papa.” 

“It matters nothing to me who knows,” he said; but all the’ 
same he gathered himself up and made an effort to recover his calm. 

“ It does to me, then,” said Constance. “lam not at all inclined, 
for papa’s remarks. Captain Gaunt, good-bye. I wish you a pleas- 
ant journey; and I hope that some time or other w^e may meet 
again, and be very good friends.” 

She had the audacity to hold out her hand to him, calmly looking: 
into his eyes as she spoke. But this was more than young Gaunt 
could bear. He gave her a fierce look of passion and despair,, 
waved his hand without touching hers, and hurried headlong away,. 

Constance stood listening till she lieard the door close behind 
him; and then she seated herself tranquilly again in her chair. It 
was evening, and she was waiting for her father for dinner. She 
had taken her last ramble with the Gaunts that afternoon; and it 
was after their return from this walk, that the young soldier had 
rushed back to inform her of the letters which called him at 
once to London, and had burst forth into the love-tale which 
had been trembling on his lips for days past. She had known 
very well that she could not escape — that the reckoning for 
these innocent pleasures would have to come. But she had not 
expected it at that moment, and had been temporarily taken by sur- 
prise. She seated herself now with a sigh of relief, yet regret. 
“Thank goodness, that’s over,” she said to herself; but she was 


:232 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

not quite comfortable on the subject. In the first place, it was over, 
nnd there was an end of all her simple fun. No more walks, no 
more talks skirting the edge of the sentimental and dangerous, no 
more diplomatic exertions to keep the victim within due limits — 
fine exercises of power, such as always carry with them a real pleas- 
ure. And then, being no more than human, she had a little com- 
punction as to the sufferer. “ He will get over it,” she said to her- 
self; change of air and scene would, no doubt do everything for 
him. Men have died, and worms have eaten them, etc. Still, .she 
could not but be sorry. He had looked very wretched, poor fellow, 
which was complimentary; but she had felt something of the self- 
contempt of a man who has got a cheap victory over an antagonist 
much less powerful than himself. A practical swordsman (or 
woman) of society should not measure arms with a merely natural 
person, knowing nothing of the noble art of self-defense. It was, 
perhaps, a little — mean, she said to herself. Had it been one of her 
own species, the duel would have been as amusing throughout, and 
no harm done. This vexed her a little, and made her uneasy. She 
remembered, though she did not care much about books or the opin- 
ions of the class of nobodies who write them, in general, of some 
very sharp things that had been paid upon this subject. Lady Clara 
Vere de Vere had not escaped handling; and she thought that after 
it Lady Clara must have felt small, as Constance Waring did now. 

But then, on the other hand, what could be more absurd than for 
a man to suppose, because a girl was glad enough to amuse herself 
with him for a week or two, in absolute default of all other society, 
that she was ready to marry him, and go to India with him! To 
India? What an idea! And it had been quite as much for his 
amusement as for hers. Neither of them had any one else : it was 
in self-defen.se — it was the only resource against absolute dullness. 
It had made the time pass for him as well as for her. He ought to 
have known all along that she meant nothing more. Indeed, 
Constance wondered how he could be so silly as to want to have a 
wife and double his expenses, and bind himself for life. A man, 
she reflect ed, must be so much better off when he has only him.self 
to think of. Fancy him taking her bills on his shoulders as well 
as his own! She wondered, with a contemptuous laugh, how he 
would like that, or if he had the least idea what these bills would 
be. On the whole, it was evident, in every point of view, that he 
was much better out of it. Perhaps even, by this time he would 
have been tearing his hair, had she taken him at his word. But no. 
Constance could not persuade herself that this was likely. Yet he 
would have lorn his hair, she was certain, before the end of the first 
year. Thus she worked herself round to something like self- for- 
giveness; but all the same there rankled at her heart a sense of 
meanness, the consciousness of having gone out in battle-array and 
vanquished with beat of drum and sound of trumpet an unprepared 
and undefended adversary, an antagonist with whom the struggle 
was not fair. Her sense of honor was touched, and all her argu- 
ments could not content her with her.self. 

“ I suppose you have been out with the Gaunts again?” Waring 
said, as they sat at table, in a dissatisfied tone. 

” les; but you need never put that question to me again, in that 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 233^ 

uncomfortable way, for George Gaunt is going off to-morrow, 
papa.” 

” Oh, he is going off to-morrow? Then I suppose you have been 
honest, and given him his conge at last?” 

“ I, honest? I did not know I had ever been accused of picking 
and stealing. If he had asked me for his conge, he should have had 
it long ago. He has been sent for, it seems.” 

” Then has the conge not yet been asked for? We shall have him 
back again, then I suppose?” said her father, in a tone of resigna- 
tion and with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“ No — for his people will be away. They are going to Switzer- 
land, and the Durants are going to Homburg. Where do you mean 
to go, when it is too hot to stay here?” 

He looked at her half angrily for a moment. “ It is never toa 
hot to stay here,” he said; then, after a pause: “We can move 
higher up among the hills. ’ ’ 

“ Where one will never see a soul— worse even than here!” 

“ Oh, you will see plenty of country-folk,” he said — “ a fine race 
of people, mountaineers, yet husbandmen, which is a rare combina- 
tion.” 

Constance looked up at him with a little moue of mingled despair 
and disdain. 

“With perhaps some romantic young Italian count for you to 
practice upon,” he said. 

Though the humor on his part was grim and derisive rather than 
sympathetic, her countenance cleared a little. “ You know, papa,” 
she said with a faintly complaining note, ‘ ‘ that my Italian is very 
limited, and your counts and countesses speak no language but their 
own.” 

“ Oh, who can tell? There may be some poor soldier on fur- 
lough, who has French enough to — By the way, ’ ’ he added sharply, 
“ you must remember that they donT understand flirtation with 
girls. If you were a married woman, oj a young widow — ’ ’ 

“You might pass me off as a young widow, papa. It would be 
amusing — or at least it might be amusing. That is not a quality of 
the life here in general. What an odd thing it is that in England we 
always believe life to be so much more amusing abroad than at 
home. ’ ’ 

“ It is amusing — at Monte Carlo, perhaps.” 

Constance made another moue at the name of Monte Carlo, from 
the sight of which she had not derived much pleasure. “ I sup- 
pose,” she said impartially, “ what really amuses one is the kind of 
diversion one has been accustomed to, and to know everybody, ” 
she added after a pause. 

“ With these views, to know nobody must be bad luck indeed!” 

“ It is,” she said with great candor; “ that is why I have been so 
much with the Gaunts. One can’t live absolutely alone, you know, 
papa.” 

“ I can — with considerable success,” he replied. 

“ Ah, you! There are various things to account for it with 
you,” she said. 

He waited for a moment, as if to know what these various things 
were; then smiled to himself a little angrily, at his daughter’s calm 


^34 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


way of taking his disabilities for granted. It was not till some time 
after, when the dinner had advanced a stage, that he spoke again. 
Then he said without any introduction : “ I often wonder, Con- 
stance, when you find this life so dull as you do — ” 

“Yes, very dull,” she said frankly, “especially now, when all 
the people are going away.” 

“I wonder often,” he repeated, “ my dear, why you stay? for 
there is nothing to recompense you for such a sacrifice. If it is for 
my sake, it is a pity, for I could really get on very well alone. We 
don’t see very much of each other; and till now, if you will pardon 
me for saying so, your mind has been taken up with a pursuit 
which — you could have carried on much better at home.” 

“ You mean what you are pleased to call flirtation, papa? No I 
could not have carried on that sort of thing at home. The condi- 
tions are altogether different. It is difficult to account for my stay- 
ing, when, clearly, you don’t consider me of any use, and don’t 
want me. ’ ’ 

, “ I have never said that. Of course, I am very glad to have 

you. It is in the bond, and therefore my right. I was regarding 
the question solely from your point of view.” 

Constance did not answer immediately. She paused to think. 
When she had turned the subject over in her mind, she replied; “ I 
need not tell you how complicated one’s motives get. It takes a 
long time to make sure which is really the fundamental one, and 
how it works.” 

“You are a philosopher, my dear.” 

■“Not more than one must be with Society pressing upon one as it 
does, papa. Nothing is straightforward nowadays. You have to 
dig quite deep down before you come at the real meaning of any- 
thing you do; and very often, when you get hold of it, you don’t 
quite like to acknowledge it, even to yourself.” 

“ That is rather an alarming preface, and very just too. If you 
don’t like to acknowledge it to yourself, you will like still less to 
acknowledge it to me.” 

“ I don’t quite see that; perhaps I am harder upon myself than 
you would be. No; but I prefer to think of it a little more before I 
tell you. I have a kind of feeling now that it is because — but you 
will think that a shabby sort of pride — it is because I am too proud 
to own myself beaten, which I should do, if I were to go back.” 

“ It is a very natural sort of pride,” he said. 

“But it is not all that. I must go a little deeper still. Not to- 
night. I have done as much thinking as I am quite able for to- 
night.” 

And thus the question was left for another day. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Next morning, Constance, seated as usual in the loggia, which 
was now, as the weather grew hot, veiled with an awning, heard, 
her ears being very quick and on the alert for every sound, a tinkle 
of the bell, a sound of admittance, the step of Domenico leading 
;some visitor to the place in which she sat. Was it ?ie, coming yet 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSEIF. 


235 


again, to implore her pardon, an extension of privileges, a hope for 
the future? She made out instantaneously, however, that the foot- 
step which followed Domenico was not that of young Gaunt. It was 
softer, less decided, an indefinite female step. She sat up in her 
chair and listened, letting her book fall, and next moment saw Mrs. 
Gaunt, old-fashioned, unassured, with a troubled look upon her 
face, in her shawl and big hat, come out almost timidly upon the 
loggia. Constance sprung to her feet — then in a moment collapsed 
and shrunk away into herself. Before the young lover, she was a. 
queen, and to her father she preserved her dignity very well; but 
when his mother appeared, the girl had no longer any power to hold 
up her head. Mrs. Gaunt was old, very badly dressed, not very 
clever or wise. But Constance felt those mild, somewhat dull eyes, 
penetrating to the depths of her own guilty heart. 

“ How do you do. Miss Waring?” said Mrs. Gaunt stiffiy. (She 
had called her ” my dear yesterday, and had been so anxious te 
please her, doin^ everything she could to ingratiate herself.) “ I 
hope I do not disturb you so early; but my son, Captain Gaunt, is 
going away — ” 

‘‘Oh, yes — I heard. I am very sorry,” the guilty Constance 
murmured, hanging her head. 

” I do not know that there is any cause to be sorry; we were 
going anyhow in a few days. And in London, my son will find 
many friends.” 

” I mean,” said Constance, drawing a long breath, beginning to 
recover a little courage, feeling, even in her discomfiture, a faint 
amusement still — ” I mean, for his friends here, who will miss him 
so much.” 

Mrs. Gaunt darted a glance at her, half wrathful, half wavering. 
It had seemed so unnatural to her that any girl could play with or 
re.sist her son. Perhaps, after all, he had misunderstood Constance. 
She said proudly: “His friends always miss George; he is so* 
friendly. Nobody ever asks anything from him, to take aby 
trouble or make any sacrifice, in vain.” 

“lam sure he is very good,” said Constance, tremulous, yet wak- 
ing to the sense of humor underneath. 

‘ ‘ That is why I am here to-day, ’ ’ said Mrs. Gaunt. ‘ ‘ My son — 
remembers — though perhaps you* will allow he has not much call to 
do so. Miss Waring — that you said something about a parcel for 
Frances. Dear Frances; he will see her — that will always be some- 
thing. ’ ’ 

“ Then, he is not coming to say good-bye?” she said, opening- 
her eyes with a semblance of innocent and regretful surprise. 

“ Oh, Miss Waring! oh, Constance!” cried the poor mother. 
“ But perhaps my boy has made a mistake. He is very wretched. 

I am sure he never closed his eyes all last night. If you saw him 
this morning, it would go to your heart. Ah, my dear, he thinks 
you will have nothing to say to him, and his heart is broken. If 
you will only let me tell him that he has made a mistake?” 

“ Is it about me, Mrs. Gaunt?” 

“ Oh, Constance! who should it be about but you? He has never 
looked at any one else since he saw you first. All that has been in 
his mind has been how to see you, how to talk to you, to make 


236 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


himself agreeable if he could — to try and get your favor. I will 
not conceal anything from you. I never was satisfied from the 
first. I thought you were too grand, too much used to fine people 
and their ways, ever to look at one of us. But then, when I saw my, 
George, the flower of my flock, with nothing in his mind but how 
to please you, his eyes following you wherever you went, as if there 
was not another in the world — ’ ’ 

“ There was not another in Bordighera, at least,” said Constance, 
under her breath. 

“There was not? What did you say — what did you say? Oh, 
tliere was nobody that he ever wasted a thought on but you. I had 
my doubts all the time. I used to say; ‘ George dear, don’t go too 
far; don’t throw everything at her feet, till you know.’ But I 
might as well have talked to the sea. If he had been the king of all 
the world, he would have poured everj^thing into your lap. Oh, 
my dear, a man’s true love is a great thing; it is more than crowns 
or queen’s jewels. You might have all the world contains, and 
beside that it would be as nothing — and this is what he has given 
you. Surely, you did not understand him when he spoke, or he did 
not understand you. Perhaps you were taken by surprise — fluttered, 
as girls will be, and said the wrong words. Or you were shy. Or 
you did not know your own mind. Oh, Constance, say it was a 
mistake, and give me a word of comfort to take to my boy!” 

The tears were running down the poor mother’s cheeks as she 
pleaded thus for her son. When she had left home that morning, 
after surprising, divining the secret, which he had done his best to 
hide from her overnight, there had been a double purpose in Mrs. 
Gaunt’s mind. She had intended to pour out such vials of wrath 
upon the girl who had scorned her son, such floods of righteous in- 
dignation, that never, never should she raise her head again ; and 
she had intended to watch her opportunity, to plead on her knees, 
if need were, if there was any hope of getting him what he wanted. 
It did not disturb her that these two intentions were totally opposed 
to each other. And she had easily been beguiled into thinking that 
there was good hope still. 

While she spoke, Constance on her side had been going through 
a series of observations, running comments upon this address, which 
did not move her very much. “If he had been king of all the 
world — ah, that would have made a difference,” she said to herself; 
and it was all she could do to refrain from bursting forth in deri- 
sive laughter at the suggestion that she herself had, perhaps, been 
shy, or had not known her own mind. To think that any woman 
could be such a simpleton, so easily deceived! The question was, 
whether to be gentle with the delusion, and spare Mrs. Gaunt s 
feelings, or whether to strike her down at once with indignation 
and sharp scorn. There passed through the mind of Constance a 
rapid calculation, that in so small a community it was better not to 
make an enemy, and also, perhaps, some softening reflections from 
the remorse which really had touched her last night. So that when 
Mrs. Gaunt ended by that fervent prayer, her knees trembling 
with the half intention of falling upon them, her voice faltering, 
her tears flowing, Constance allowed herself to be touched with 
responsive emotion. She put out both her hands and cried: “Oh, 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELE. 


237 


don’t speak like that to me; oh, don’t look at me so! Dear, dear 
Mrs, Gaunt, teach me what to do to make up for it! for I never 
thought it wo-uld come to this. I never imagined that he, who de- 
serves so much better, would trouble himself about me. Oh, what 
a wretched creature I am to bring trouble everywhere! for I am 
not free. Don’t you know I am — engaged to some one else? Oh, I 
thought eveiybody knew of it. I am not free,” 

“ Not free!” said Mrs. Gaunt with a cry of dismay. 

“ Oh, didn’t you know of it?” said Constance. “ I thought 
eveiybody knew. It has been settled for a long time — since I was 
quite a child,” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Gaunt solemnly, “ if your heart is not in 
it, you ought not to go on with it. I did hear something of — a gen- 
tleman, whom your mamma wished you to marry; who was very 
rich and all that. ’ ’ 

Constance nodded her head slowly, in a somewhat melancholy 
assent. 

“ But I was told that you did not wish it yourself — that you had 
broken it off — that you had come here to avoid-^ Oh, my dear 
girl, don’t take up a false sense of duty, or — or honor — or self-sacri- 
fice! Constance, you may have a right to sacrifice yourself, but not 
another — not another, dear. And all his happiness is wrapped up 
in you. And if it is a thing your heart does not go with!” cried the 
poor lady, losing herself in the complication of phrases. Constance 
only shook her head. 

” Dear Mrs. Gaunt I must think of honor and duty. What 
would become of us all if we put an engagement aside, because — 
because — ? And it would be cruel to the other; he is not strong. I 
could not, oh, I could not break off — Oh, no, not for worlds — it 
would kill him. But will you try and persuade Captain Gaunt, 
not to think hardly of me? I thought I might enjo}'^ his friendship 
without any harm. If I have done wrong, oh,. forgive me?” Con- 
stance cried, 

Mrs. Gaunt dried her eyes. She was a simple-minded woman, 
who knew what she wanted, and whose instinct taught her to re- 
fuse a stone when it was offered to her instead of breafl. She 
said: ” He will forgive you, Miss Waring; he will not think hardly 
of you, you may be sure. They are too infatuated to do that, 
when a girl like jou takes the trouble to — But I think you might 
have thought t wice before you did it, knowing what you tell me 
now. A young man fresh from India, where he has been working 
hard for years — coming home to get up his strength, to enjoy him- 
self a little, to make up for all his long time away — And because 
you are a little lonely, and want to enjoy his — friendship, as you 
say, you go and spoil his holiday for him, make it all wretched, and 
make even his poor mother wish that he had never come home at 
all. And you think it will all be made up if you say you are sorry 
at the end! To him, perhaps, poor foolish boy; but oh, not lome.” 

Constance made no reply to this. She had done her best, and for 
a moment she thought she had succeeded; but she had always been 
aware, by instinct, that the mother was less easy to l)eguile than the 
son; and she was silent, attempting no further self-defense. 

” Young men are a mystery to me,” said Mrs. Gaunt, standing 


238 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

with agitated firmness in the middle of the loggia, taking no notice 
of the chair which had been offered her. She did not even look at 
Constance, but directed her remarks to the swaying palms in the 
foreground and the hills behind— “ They are a mystery! There 
may be one under their very eyes that is as good a gold and as true 
as steel, and they will never so much as look at her. And there 
will be another that thinks of nothing but amusing herself, and that 
is the one they will adore. Oh, it is not for the first time now that 
I have found it out! I had my misgivings from the very first; but 
he was like all the rest — he would not hear a word from his mother; 
and now I am sure I wish his furlough was at an end; I wish he 
had never come home. His father and 1 would rather have waited 
on and pined for him, or even made up our minds to die without 
seeing him, rather than he should have come here to break his 
heart. ’ 

. She paused a moment and then resumed again, turning from the 
palms and distant peaks to concentrate a look of fire upon Con- 
stance, who sat sunk in her wicker chair, turning her head away. 

“And if a man were to go astray after being used like that, 
whose fault would it be? If he were to go wrong— if he were to 
lose heart, to say. What’s the good? — whose fault would it be? Oh, 
don’t tell me that you didn’t know wdiat you were doing, that you 
didn’t mean to break his heart! Did you think he had no heart at 
all? But then, why should you have taken the trouble? It wouldn’t 
have amused you, it -would have been no fun, had he had no heart.” 

“ You seem,” said Constance, without turning her head, launch- 
ing a stray arrow in self-defense, “ to know all about it, Mrs. 
Gaunt.” 

“ Perhaps I do know all about it; I am a woman m 5 ’-self. I 
wasn’t always old and faded. I know there are sOme things a girl 
may do in innocence, and some — that no one but a wicked woman 
of the world — Oh, you are young to be called such a name. I 
oughtn’t, at your age, however I may suffer by you, to call you 
such a name.” 

“You may call me what name you like. Fortunately, I have not 
to look to you as my judge. Look here, ’ ’ cried Constance, spring- 
ing to her feet. “You say you are a woman yourself. I am not 
like Frances, a girl that knew nothing. If your son is at my feet 
I have had better men at my feet, richer men, far better matches 
than Captain Gaunt. Would any one in their senses expect me to 
marry a poor soldier, to go out to India, to follow the regipient? 
You forget I’m Lady Markham’s daughter as well as Mr. Waring’s. 
Put yourself in her place for a moment, and think what you would 
say if your daughter told you that was what she was going to do. 
To marry a poor man, not even at home, an officer in India! What 
would you say? You would lock me up in mv room, and keep me 
on bread and water. You -vv^ould say the girl is mad. At least, 
that is what my mother, if she could, would do.” 

Mrs. Gaunt caught upon the point which was most salient and 
attackable. “ An Indian officer!” she cried. “That shows how 
little you know. There were men in the Company’s service that — 
Tlie Company’s service was — How dare you speak so to me?. 


k HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 230 

General Gaunt was in tlie Company’s service,” she cried, with an 
outburst of injured feeling and excited pride. 

To this Constanc'c made reply with a mocking laugh, which 
nearly drove her adversary frantic, and resumed her seat, having 
«aid what she had to say. 

Poor Mrs. Gaunt sat down, too, in sheer disability to support her- 
self. Her limbs trembled under her. She w'anted to cry, but 
would not, had she died in that act of self-restraint. And as she 
could not have said another word without crying, force was upon 
her to keep silence, though her heart burned. After an interval she 
said tremulously: “ If this is one of our punishments for Eve’s 
fault, it’s far, far harder to bear than the other; and every woman 
has to bear it more or less. To see a man that ought to make one 
woman’s happiness, turned into a jest by another w'oman, and made 
a laughing-stock of, and all his innocent pleasure turned into bit- 
terness. Why did you do it? Were there not plenty of men in 
the world, that you should take my boy for your plaything? Wasn't 
there room for you in London, that you should come here? Oli, 
what possessed you to come here, where no one w^ant(;d you, and 
spoil all?” 

Constance turned round and stared at her accuser with troubled 
eyes. It was a question to which it was difficult to give any an- 
swer; and she could not deny that it was a very pertinent question. 
No one had wanted her. There had been room for her in London, 
and a recognized place, and everything a girl could desire. Oh, 
how she desired now' those things which belonged to her, wiiich she 
had left so lightly, which there was nothing here to replace! Why 
had she left "them? If a wish could have taken her back, out of 
this foreign, alien, unloved scene, away from Mrs. Gaunt, scolding 
lier in the big hat and shawi, which w'ould be only fit for a charade 
at home, to Lady Markliam’s soft and lovely presence — to Claude, 
even poor Claude, with his beautiful eyes and his fear of draughts 
— how swiftly would she have traveled through the air! But a 
wish w^ould not do it; and she could only stare at her assailant 
blankly, and in her heart echo the question, Why, oh, why? 

Notwithstanding this stormy interview Constance had so far re- 
covered by the afternoon, ana w'as so utterly destitute of anything 
else by way of amusement, that she w'alked down to the railway 
station at the hour when the train started for Marseilles and Eng- 
land, wdth a perfectly composed and smiling countenance, and the 
little parcel for Frances under her arm. Mrs. Gaunt was like a 
woman turned to stone when she suddenly saw^ this apparition, 
standing upon the platform, talking to her old general, amusing and 
occupying him so that he almost forgot that he was here on no joy 
ful, but a melancholy occasion. And to see George hurry forward, 
his dark face lit up with a sudden ^ow, his hat in his hand as if he 
were about to address the queen! These are things wffiich are very 
hard upon women, to whom it is generally given to preserve their 
senses even when the most seductive siren smiles. 

“ You would not come to say good-bye to me, so I had to take it 
into my own hands,” Constance said in her clear young voice, 
which was to be heard quite distinctly through all the jabber of the 


240 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


Riviera functionaries. “And here is the little parcel for Frances,, 
if you will be so very good. Do go and see them, Captain Gaunt. ’ ^ 

“Of course he will go and see them, ” said the general — “too 
glad. He has not so many people to see in town, that he should 
forget our old friend Wariag’s near connections, and Frances, 
whom we were all so fond of. And you may be sure he will be- 
honored by any commissions you will give him.” 

“ Oh, I have no commissions. Markham does my commissions, 
when I have any. He is the best of brothers in that respect. Give 
my love to mamma. Captain Gaunt. She will like to see some one 
who has seen me. Tell her I get on — pretty well. Tell them all to 
come out here.” 

“ He must not do that, Miss Waring; for it will soon be loo hot, 
and we are all going away.” 

“ Oh, I was not in earnest,” said Constance; “ it was only a little 
jest. I must look too sincere for anything, for people are always 
taking my little jokes as if I meant them, every word. ’ ’ She raised 
her eyes to Captain Gaunt as she spoke, and with one steady look made 
an end in a moment of all the hasty hopes that had sprung up again 
in less time than Jonah’s gourd. She put the parcel in his charge, 
and shook hands with him, taking no notice of his sudden change 
of countenance. And not only this, but waited a little way off till 
the poor young fellow had got into the train and had been taken 
farewell of by his parents. Then she waved her hand and a little 
film of a pocket-handkerchief, and waited till the old pair came 
out, Mrs. Gaunt with very red eyes, and even the general blowing 
his nose unnecessarily. 

“ It seems only the other day that we came down to meet him — 
after not seeing him for so many years.” 

“ Oh, my poor boy! But I should not mind if I thought he had 
got any good out of his holiday,” said Mrs. Gaunt launching a 
burning look among her tears at the siren. 

“ Oh, I think he has enjoyed himself, Mrs. Gaunt. I am sure 
you need not have any burden on your mind on that account,” the 
young deceiver said, smoothly. 

Yes, he had enjoyed himself; and now had to pay the price of it 
in disappointment and ineffectual misery. This was all it had 
brought him, this brief intoxicating dream, this fool’s paradise. 
Constance walked with them as far as their way lay together, and 
“talked very nicely,” as he said afterward, to the general; but. 
Mrs. Gaunt, if she could have done it with a wish, would have 
willingly pitched this siren, where other sirens belong to — inta the 
sea. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

And Constance, too, had found it amusing; she did not hesitate 
to acknowledge that to herself. She had got a great deal of diver- 
sion out of these six weeks. There had been nothing, really, when 
you came to think of it, to amuse anybody; a few dull walks; a 
drive along the dusty roads, wbich were more dusty than anything 
she had ever experienced in her life; and then a ramble among the 
hills, a climb from terrace to terrace of the olive gardens, or through 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 241 

the stony streets of a little mountain town. It was the contrast, the 
harmony, the antagonism, the duel and the companionship contin- 
ually going on, which had given everything its zest. The scientific 
man with an exciting object under the microscope, the astronomer 
with his new star pulsing out of the depths of sky, could scarcely 
have been more absorbed than Constance. Not so much; for notT 
the most cherished of star-fishes, not the most glorious of stars, is so 
exciting as it is to watch the risings and fiowings of emotion under 
your own hand, to feel that you can cause ecstasy or despair, and 
raise up another human creature to the heights of delight, or drop 
him to depths beneath purgatory, at your will. When the young 
and cruel possess this power — and the very young are often cruel 
by ignorance, by inability to understand suffering — they are seldom 
clever enough to use it to the full extent. But Constance was clever^ 
and had tasted blood before. It had made the time pass as nothing 
else could have done. It had carried on a thread of keen interest 
through all these commonplace pursuits. It had been as amusing, 
nay, much more so than if she had loved him; for she got the ad- 
vantage of all his follies without sharing them, and felt herself to 
stand high in cool ethereal light, while the unfortunate young man 
turned himself outside in for her enlightenment. She had enjoyed 
herself. She did not deny it; but now there was the penalty to 
pay. 

He was gone, clean gone, escaped from her power; and nothing 
was left but the beggarly elements of this small bare life, in which 
there was nothing to amuse or interest. The roads were more dusty 
than ever, lying white in heat and dust, which rose in clouds round 
every carriage — carriage! that was an euphemism — cab which 
passed. The sun blazed everywhere, so that one thought regretfully 
of the dull skies of England, and charitably of the fogs and rains. 
There was nothing to do but to go up among the olives and sit down 
upon some ledge and look at the sea. Constance did not draw, 
neither did she read. She did nothing that could be of any use to 
her here. She regretted now that she had allowed herself at 
the very beginning to fall into the snare of that amusement, 
to reaay to her hand, which consisted of Captain Gaunt. It 
had been a mistake, if for no other reason, at least because it left 
the dullness more dull than ever, now it was over. He it was who 
had been her resource, his looks and ways her study, the gradual 
growth of his love the romance which had kept her going. She 
asked herself sometimes whether she could possibly have done as 
much harm to him as to herself by this indulgence, and answ^ered 
earnestly. No. How could it do him any harm? He was vexed, of 
course, for the moment, because he could not have her- but very 
soon he would come to. He would be a fool, more of a fool than 
she thought him, if he did not soon see that it was much better for 
him that she had thought only of a little amusement. Why should 
he marry, a young man with very little money? There could be 
no doubt it would have been a great mistake. Constance did not 
know what society in India is like, but she supposed it must be 
something like society at home, and in that case, there was no 
doubt he would have found it altogether more diflicuU had he gone 
back a married man. 


^4:2 


A HOUSE divided AGAINST ITSELF. 


She could not think, looking at the supject dispassionately, how 
he could ever have wished it. An unmarried young man (she re- 
flected) gets asked to a great many places, where the people could 
not be troubled with a pair. And whereas some girls may be pro- 
*moted by marriage, it is almost always to the disadvantage of a 
young man. So, wliy should he make a fuss about it, this young 
woman of the world asked herself. He ought to have been very 
glad that he had got his amusement and no penalty to pay. But 
for herself, she was sorry. Now he was gone, there was nobody to 
talk to, nobody to walk with, no means of amusement at all. She 
did not know what to do with herself, while he Avas speeding to 
dear London. What was she to do with herself? Filial piety and 
the enjoyment of her own thoughts — without anything to do even 
for her father, or any subject to employ her thoughts upon — these 
were all that seemed to be left to her in her life. The tourists and 
invalids Avere all gone, so that there was not even the chance of 
somebody turning up at the hotels; and even the Gaunts — between 
whom and herself there was now a gulf fixed — and the Durants, 
Avho Avere bores unspeakable, AA'ere going aAA^ay. What Avas she 
to do? 

Alas, that exhilarating game which had ended so sadly for George 
Gaunt, was not ending very cheerfully for Constance. It had made 
life too tolerable — it had kept her in a pleasant self-deception as to 
the reality of the lot she had chosen. Noav that reality flashed upon 
her — nay; the word is far too animated; it did not flash, nothing 
any longer flashed, except that invariable, intolerable sun — it opened 
upon her dully with its long, long, endless vistas. The still rooms 
in the Palazzo with the green yersiani closed, all blazing sunshine 
without, all dead stillness and darkness Avithin — and nothing to do, 
nobody to see, nothing to give a fresh turn to her thoughts. Not a 
novel even! Papa’s old books upon out- of the- way subjects, dreary 
as the dusty road, endless as the uneventful days — and papa him- 
self, the center of all. When she turned this over and over in her 
mind, it seemed to her that if, Avhen she first came, instead of being 
seduced into flowery paths of flirtation, she had paid a little atten- 
tion to her father, it might have been better for her now. But that 
chance was over, and George Gauni was gone, and only dullness 
remained behind. 

And oh, how different it must be in town, where the season was 
just beginning, and Frances, that little country thing, Avho would 
care nothing about it, was going to be presented! Constance, it is 
scarcely necessary to say, had been told what her sister was to wear; 
indeed, having gone through the ceremony herself, and knowing 
exactly what was right, could have guessed without being told. 
Hoav would Frances look with her little demure face and hei neat 
little figure? Constance had no unkindly feeling toward her sister. 
She fully recognized the advantages of the girl, who was like 
mamma; and whose youthful freshness would be enhanced by the 
good looks of the little stately figure beside her, showing the worst 
that Frances was likely to come to, even when she got old. Con- 
stance knew very well that this was a great advantage to a girl, hav- 
ing heard the frank remarks of society upon those beldams who lead 
their young daughters into the world', presenting in their OAvn per- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 243 

sons a horrible caricature of what those girls may grow to be. But 
Frances w^ould look very well, the poor exile decided, sitting on the 
low wall of one of the terraces, gazing through the gray olives over 
the blue sea. She would look very well. She would be frightened, 
yet amused by the show. She would be admired— by people who 
liked that quiet kind. Markham would be with them; and Claude, 
perhaps Claude, if it was a line day, and there was no east in the 
wind! She stopped to laugh to herself, at this suggestion, but her 
. color rose at the same time, and an angry question woke in her 
mind. Claude. She had told Mrs. Gaunt she was engagkl to him 
still. Was she engaged to him? Or had he thrown her olf, as she 
threw him off, and perhaps found consolation in Frances? At this 
thought the olive gardens in their coolness grew intolerable, and 
the sea the dreariest of prospects. She jumped up, and notwith- 
standing the sun and the dust, went down the broad road, the old 
Roman way, where there was no shade nor shelter. It w'as not 
safe, she said to herself, to be left there with her thoughts. She must 
break the spell or die. 

She went, of all places in the world, poor Constance! to the 
Durants in search of a little variety. Their loggia also was covered 
with an awning; but they did not venture into it till the sun was 
going down. They had their tea-table in the drawing-room, which, 
till the eyes grew accustomed to it, 5vas quite dark, with but one 
ray of subdued light stealing in from the open door of the loggia, 
but the blinds all closed and the windows. Here Constance was 
directed, by the glimmer of reflection in the teapot and china, to the 
spot where the family were sitting. Mrs. Durant and Tasie 
languidly waving their fans. The dolcefar niente w^as not appre- 
ciated in that clerical house. Tasie thought it her duty to be al- 
ways doing something, knitting at least for a bazaar, if it was not 
light enough for other work. But the heat had overcome even 
Tasie; though it could not, if it had been tropical, do away with 
the little furnace of the hot tea. They all received Constance widi 
the languid delight of people in an atmosphere of ninety degrees, 
to whom no visitor has appeared, nor any incident happened all day. 

“ Oh, Miss Waring,” said Tasie, “ we have just had a great dis- 
appointment. Some one sent us the * Queen ’ from home- and we 
looked directly for the drawdng-room, to see Frances’ name and how 
she was dressed; but it is not there.” 

” No,” said Constance; ” the 29th is her day.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, that is what I said, mamma. I said we must have mistaken 
the date. It couldn’t be that there was any mistake about going, 
when she wrote and told us. I knew the date must be wiong.” 

“ Many things may occur at the last moment to stop one, Tasie. 
I have known a lady with her dress all ready laid out on the bed, and 
circumstances happened so that she could not go. ’ ’ 

“That is by no means 'a singular experience, my dear,” said 
Mr. Durant, who in his black coat was almost invisible. “ I have 
known many such cases; and in matters more important than draw- 
ing-rooms. ” 

“ There was tlie Sangazures,” said the clergyman’s wife~“ don’t 
you recollect? Lady Alice was just putting on her bonnet to go to 
her daughter’s marriage, when — ” 


244 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF, 


“ It is really unnecessary to recall so many examples,” said Con- 
stance. No doubt, they are all quite true; but as a matter of fact, in 
this case the date was the 29th.” 

” Oh, I hope,” said Tasie, ” that somebody will send us another 
‘Queen;’ for I should be so sorry to miss seeing about Frances. 
Have you heard^ Miss Waring, how she is to be dressed?” 

‘ ‘ It will be the usual white business, ’ ’ said Constance, calmly. 

“You mean — all white? Yes, I suppose so; and the material, 
silk or satin, with tulle? Oh, yes, I have no doubt; but to see it 
all written down, with the drapings and houillorinh and* all that, 
makes it so much more real. Don’t you think so? Dear Frances, 
she always looked so nice in whites^which is trying to many peo- 
ple. I really can not wear white, for my part. ’ ’ 

Constance looked at her with a scarcely concealed smile. She 
was not tolerant of the old-young lady, as Fnmces was. Her eyes 
meant mischief as they made out the sandy complexion, the uncer- 
tain hair, which were so* unlike Frances’ clear little face and glossy 
brown satin locks. But fortunately, the eloquence of looks did not 
tell for much in that closely shuttered dark room. And Constance’s 
nerves, already so jarred and strained, responded with another keen 
vibration when Mrs. Durant’s voice suddenly came out of the gloom 
with a bland question: ” And when are you moving? Of course, 
like all the rest, you must be on the wing. ’ ’ 

“ Where should we be going? I don’t think we are going any- 
where,” she said. 

” My dear Miss Waring! that shows, if you will let me say so, 
how little you know of our climate here. You must go; in the 
summer, it is intolerable. We have stayed a little longer than 
usual, this year. My husband takes the duty at Homburg every 
summer, as perhaps you are aware. ' ’ 

“ Oh, it is so much nicer there for the Sunday- work, ” said Tasie; 
“ though I love dear little Bordighera, too. But the Sunday-school 
is a trial. To give up one’s afternoons and take a great deal of 
trouble for perhaps three children! Of course, papa, I know it is 
my duty. ’ ’ 

‘‘ And quite as much your duty, if there were but one; for, think 
if you saved but one soul. Is that not worth living for, Tasie?” 
Mr. Durant said. 

” Oh, yes, yes, papa. I only say it is a little hard. Of course, 
that is the test of duty. Tell Frances, please, when you write, 
Miss Waring, there is to be a bazaar for the new church; and I dare 
say she could send or do me something. Two or three of her nice 
little sketches. People like that sort of thing. Generally, things 
at bazaars are so useless. Knitted things, everybody has got such 
shoals of them; but a water-color — you know now that always 
sells.” 

” I will tell Fan,” said Constance, ‘'^when I write — but that is 
not often. We are neither of us very good correspondents.” 

“ You should tell your papa,” went on Mrs. Durant, “of that 
little place which I always say I discovered, Miss Waring. Such a 
nice little place, and quite cool and cheap Nobody goes; there is 
not a tourist passing by once in a fortnight. Mr. Waring would 
like it, I know. Don’t you think Mr. Waring would like it, papa?” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


245 


“ That depends, my dear, upon so many circumstances over which 
he has no control, such as, which way the wind is blowing, and if 
he has the books he wants, and — ” 

“ Papa, you must not laugh at Mr. Waring. He is a dear. I 
will not hear a word that is not nice of Mr. Waring,” cried Tasie. 

This championship of her father was more than Constance could 
bear. She rose from her seat quickly and declared that she must 
go. 

‘‘So soon?” said Mrs. Durant, holding the hand which Con- 
stance had held out to her, and looking up with keen eyes and 
spectacles. ‘ ‘ And we have not said a word yet of the event and 
all about it, and why it was. But I think we can give a guess at 
why it was.” 

” What event?” Constance said, with chill surprise — as if she 
cared what was going on in their little world! 

‘‘Ah, how .can you ask me, my dear? The last event, that took 
us all so much by surprise. I am afraid, I am sadly afraid you are 
not without blame.” 

‘‘ Oh, mamma! Miss Waring will think we do nothing but gos- 
sip. But you must remember there is so little going on, that we 
can’t help remarking — And perhaps it was quite true what they 
said, that poor Captain Gaunt — ” 

‘‘Oh, if it is anything about Captain Gaunt, ” said Constance, 
hastily withdrawing her hand; ‘‘I know so little about the people 
here — ’ ’ 

Tasie followed her to the door. ‘‘You must not mind,” she said, 
“ what mamma says. She does not mean anything — it is only her 
way. She always thinks there must be reasons for things Now 
I,” said Tasie, ‘‘ know that very often there are no reasons for any- 
thing.” Having uttered this oracle she allowed the visitor to go 
down-stairs, ‘‘ And you will not forget to tell Frances,” she said, 
looking over the balustrade. In a little house like that of the Du- 
rants, the stairs in England would have been wood, and shabby ones; 
but here they were marble, and of imposing appearance. ‘ ‘ Any 
little thing I should be thankful for,” said Tasie; “ or she might 
pick up a few trifles from one of the Indian shops, but water-coioi*s 
are what I should prefer. Good-bye, dear Miss Waring. Oh, it is 
not good-bye for good; I shall certainly come to see you before we 
go away!” 

Constance had not gone half-way along the Marina when she met 
General Gaunt, who looked grave, but yet greeted her kindly. 

“ We are going to-morrow,” he said. “ My wife is so very busy, 

I do not know if she will be able to find time to call to say good- 
bye.” 

‘‘ I hope you don’t think so badly of me as she does. General 
Gaunt?” 

‘‘ Badly, my dear young lady! You must know that is impossi- 
ble,” said the old soldier, shuffling a little from one foot to the 
other. And then he added: “ Ladffes are a little unreasonable. 
And if they think you have interfered with the little finger of a 
child of theirs — But I hope you will let me have the pleasure of 
paying my farewell visit in the morning.” 

‘‘ Good-bye, general,” Constance said. She held her head high, 


246 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


and walked proudly away past all the empty hotels and shops, not 
heeding the sun, which still played down upon her, though from a 
lower level. She cared nothing for these people, she said to her- 
self, vehemently, and yet the mere feeling of the farewells in the- 
air added a forlorn feeling to the stagnation of the place. Every- 
body was going away except her father and herself. She^ felt as if 
the preparations and partings, and all the pleasure of Tasie in the 
“ work ” elsewhere, and her little fussiness about the bazaar, were 
all offenses to herself, Constance, who was not thought good enough 
even to ask a contribution from. No one thought Constance good 
for anything, except to blame her for ridiculous impossibilities, 
such as not marrying Captain Gaunt. It seemed that this was the 
only thing which she was supposed capable of doing. And while 
all the other people went away she was to stay here to be burned 
brown, and perhaps to get fever, unused as she was to a blazing; 
summer like this. She- had to stay here, she, who was so young, 
and could enjoy everything, while all the old people, to whom it 
would not matter very much, went away. She felt angry, offended, 
miserable, as she went in and got herself ready mechanically for 
dinner. She knew her father would take no notice, would probab^ 
receive the news of the departure of the others without remark. lie 
cared nothing, not nearly so much as about a new book. And she, 
throbbing with pain, discomfiture, loneliness, and anger, was alone 
to bear the burden of this stillness and of the uninhabited world. 


CHAPTER XL. 

Wauing was not so indifferent to the looks or feelings of his; 
daughter as appeared. After all, he was not entirely buried in his 
books. To Frances, who had grown up by his side without particu- 
larly attracting his attention, he had been kindly indifferent, not 
feeling any occasion to concern himself about the child, who al- 
ways had managed to amuse herself, and never had made any call 
upon him. But Constance had come upon him as a stranger, as an 
individual with a character and faculties of her own, and it had 
not been without curiosity that he had watched her to see how she 
would reconcile herself with the new cirumstances. Her absorption 
in the amusement provided for her by young Gaunt had somewhat 
revolted her father, who set it down as one of the usual exhibitions 
of love in idleness, which every one sees by times as he makes his 
way through the world. He had not interfered, being thoroughly 
convinced that interference is useless, in addition to that reluctance 
to do anything which had grown upon him in his recluse life. But 
since Gaunt had disappeared without a sign — save those of a little 
irritability, a little unusual gravity on the part of Constance — her 
father had been roused a little to ask what it meant. Had the 
young fellow “ behaved badly,” as people say? Had he danced 
attendance upon her all this»time, only to leave her at the end? It 
did not seem possible, when he looked at Constance with her easy 
air of mastery, and thought of the shy, eager devotion of the young 
soldier, and his impassioned looks. But yet, he was aware that in 
such cases all prognostics failed, that the conqueror was sometimes 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


247 


conquered, and the intended victim remained master of the field. 
Waring observed his daughter more closely than ever on this even- 
ing, She was distraite, self-absorbed, a little impatient, sometimes 
not noting what he said to her, sometimes answering in an irritable 
tone. The replies she made to him when she did reply, showed that 
Iwir mind was running on other matters. She said abruptly, in the 
■middle of a little account he was giving her, with the idea of amus- 
ing her, of one of the neighboring mountain castles, “ Do you know, 
papa, that everybody is going away?” 

Waring felt, with a certain discomfiture, which was comic, yet 
'•annoying, like one who has been suddenly pulled up with a good 
deal of ‘"way” on him, and stops himself with difficulty — “a 
branch of the old Dorias,” he went on, having these words in his 
very mouth — and then, after a precipitate pause: “Eh? Oh, every- 
body is — ? Yes, I know. They always do at this time of the year.” 

It will be rather miserable, don’t you think, when every one is 
gone?” 

“ My dear Constance, ‘ every one ’ means the Gaunts and Du- 
rants. I could not have supposed you cared.” 

“ For the Gaunts and Durants — oh, no,” said Constance. “ But 
to think there is not a soul — no one to speak to— not even the clergy- 
man, not even Tasie.” She laughed, but there was a certain look 
of alarm in her face, as if the emergency was one which was un- 
precedented. “ That frightens one, in spite of one’s self. And 
what are we going to do?” 

It was Waring now who hesitated, and did not know how to re- 
ply. “ We!” he said. “ To tell the truth, I had not thought of it. 
Frances was always quite willing to staj" at home.” 

“ But I am not Frances, papa.” 

““ I beg your pardon, my dear; that is quite true. Of course, I 
never supposed so. You understand that for myself I prefer always 
not to be disturbed, to go on as I am. But you, a young lady fresh 
from society — Had I supposed that you cared for the Durants, for 
instance, I should have thought of some way of making up for 
Iheir absence; but I thought, on the whole, you would prefer their 
absence.” 

“That has nothing to do with it,” said Constance. “ I don’t 
care for the individuals; they are all rather bores. Captain Gaunt,” 
she added resolutely, introducing the name witn determination, 
'“ became very much of a bore before he w^ent away. But the thing 
is to have nobody — nobody! One has to put up with bores very 
often; but to have nobody, actually not a soul ! The circumstances 
^re quite unprecedented. ’ ’ 

There was something in her air as she said this which amused 
her father. It was the air of a social philosopher brought to a 
pause in the face of an unimagined dilemma, rather than of a young 
lady stranded upon a desert shore wdiere no society was to be found. 

“No doubt,” he said, “you never knew anything of the kind 
before.” 

“Never,” said Constance with warmth. “People who are a 
nuisance, often enough; but nobody, never before.” 

‘ ‘ I prefer nobody, ’ ’ said her father. 

She raised her eyes to him, as if he were one of the problems to 


248 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


which, for the first time, her attention was seriously called. “ Per- 
haps,” she said; “ but then you are not in a natural condition, papa 
— no more than a hermit in the desert, who has forsworn society al- 
together.” 

‘‘Allowing that I am abnormal, Constance, for the argument’s 
sake — ” 

‘‘And so was Frances, more or less — that is, she could content 
herself with the peasants and fishermen, who, of course, are just as 
good as anybody else, if you make up your mind to it, and under- 
stand their ways. But I am not abnormal,” Constance said, her 
color rising a little. “ I want the society of my own kind. It 
seems unnatural to you, probably, just as your way of thinking 
seems unnatural to me.” 

‘‘1 have seen both ways,” said Waring, in his turn becoming 
animated; “ and so far as my opinion goes, the peasants and fisher- 
men are a thousand times better than what you call society; and 
solitude, with one’s own thoughts and pursuits, the best of all.” 

There was a momentary pause, and then Constance said; ‘‘ That 
may be, papa. What is best in the abstract is not the question. In 
that way, mere nothing would be the best of all, for there could be 
no harm in it. ’ ’ 

“ Nor any good.” 

“ That is what I mean on my side — nor any good. It would be 
better to be alone— then (I suppose) you would never be bored, 
never feel the need of anything, the mere sound of a voice, some 
one going by. That may be your w^ay of thinking; but it is not 
mine. If one has no society, one had better die at once, and save 
trouble. That is what I should like to do.” 

A certain feminine confusion in her argument, produced by haste 
and the stealing in of personal feeling, stopped Constance, wdio was^ 
too clear-headed not to see when she had got involved. Her confu- 
sion had the usual effect of touching her temper and causing a little 
crise of sentiment. The tears came to her eyes. She could be 
heroic, and veil her personal grievances like a social martyr so long 
as this was necessary in presence of the world; but in the present 
case it was not necessary; it was better, in fact, to let nature have 
its way. 

‘‘That will not be necessary, I hope,” said Waring, somewhat 
coldly. He thought of Frances with a sigh, who never bothered 
him, who was contented with anything! and carried on her own 
little thoughts, whatever they might be, her little drawings, her 
little life, so tranquilly, knowing nothing better. What was he to 
do, with the responsibility upon his hands of this other creature?, 
whom all the same he could not shake off, nor, even — as a gentle- 
man, if not as a father — allow to perceive what an embarrassment 
she was. “Without going so far,” he said, “we must consult 
what is best to be done, since you feel it so keenly. My ordinary 
habits even of mlleggiatura would not please you, any better than 
staying at home, I fear. We used to go up to Dolceacqua, Frances 
and I; or to Eza; or to Porte Fino, on the opposite coast. At no 
one of which places was there a soul — as you reckon souls — to be 
seen. ’ ’ 

^ “That is a great pity,” said Constance; “for even Frances, 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 249 

though she may have been a Stoic horn, must have wanted to see a 
human creature who spoke English now and then.” 

” A Stoic! It never occurred to me that she was a Stoic,” said 
Waring with astonishment and a sudden sense of offense. The idea 
that his little Frances was not perfectly happy, that she had any- 
thing to put up with, anything to forgive, was intolerable to him; 
and it was a new idea. He reflected that she had consented to go 
away with an ease which surprised him at the time. Was it possi- 
ble? This suggestion disturbed him much in his certainty that his 
was absolutely the right way. 

” If all these expedients are unsatisfactoiy, ” he said sharply, 
■“perhaps you will come to my assistance, and tell me where you 
would be satisfied to go. ’ ’ 

“ Papa,” said Constance, “ I am going to make a suggestion 
which is a very bold one; perhaps you will be angry — but I don’t 
do it to make you angry; and please, don’t answer me till you 
have thought a moment. It is just this — why shouldn’t we go 
home?” 

“ Go home!” The words flew from him in the shock and won- 
der. He grew pale as he stared at her, too much thunderstruck to 
be angry, as she said. 

Constance put up her hand to stop him. “ I said, please, don’t 
answer till you have thought.”* 

And then they sat for a minute or more looking at each other 
from opposite sides of the table — in that pause which comes when 
a new and strange thought has been thrown into the midst of a 
turmoil which it has power to excite or to allay. Waring went 
through a great many phases of feeling while he looked at his 
young daughter sitting undaunted opposite to him, not afraid of 
him, treating him as no one else had done for years, as an equal, 
as a reasonable being, whose wishes were not to be deferred to 
superstitiously, but whose reasons for what he did and said were to 
be put to the test, as in the case of other men. And he knew that 
he could not beat down this cool and self-possessed girl, as fathers 
can usually crush the young creatures whom they have had it in 
their power to reprove and correct from their cradles. Constance 
was an independent intelligence. She was a gentlewoman to whom 
he could not be rude, any more than to the queen. This hushed 
at once the indignant outcry on his lips. He said at last, calmly 
enough, with only a little sneer piercing through his forced smile: 
“ We must take care, like other debaters, to define what we mean 
exactly by the phrases we use. Home, for example. What do you 
mean by home? My home, in the ordinary sense of the word, is 
here. ’ ’ 

“ My dear father,” said Constance, with the air, somewhat exas- 
perated by his folly, of a philosopher with a neophyte, “ I wish 
you would put the right names to things. Yes, it is quite necessary 
to define, as you say. How can an Englishman,^ with all his duties 
in his own country, deriving his income from it, with houses be- 
longing to him, and relatione, and everything that makes up life — 
how can he, I ask you, say that home, in the ordinary sense of the 
word, is here? What is the ordinary sense of the word?” she said, 
after a pause — looking at him with the indignant frown of good 


^>50 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

sense, and that little air of repressed exasperation, as of the wise' 
toward the foolisher, which made Waring, in the midst of his own. 
just anger and equally just discomfiture, feel a certain amusement 
too. He kept his temper with the greatest pains and care. Dome- 
mico had left the room when the discussion began, and the lamp' 
which hung over the table lighted impartially the girl’s animated 
countenance, pressing forward in the strength of a position which 
she felt to be invulnerable, and the father’s clouded and withdraw- 
ing face; for he had taken his eyes from her, with unconscious 
cowardice, when she fixed him with that unwavering gaze. 

“ I will allow that you put the position very strongly — as well as 
a little undutifully,” he said. 

“'Undutifully? Is it one’s duty to one’s father to be silly — tO' 
give up one’s power of judging what is wrongs and what is rights 
I am sure, papa, you are much too candid a thinker to suggest that.”" 

What could he say? He was very angry; but this candid thinker 
took him quite at unawares. It tickled, while it defied him. And 
he was a very candid thinker, as she said. Perhaps he had been 
treated illogicaily in the great crisis of his life; for, as a matter of 
fact, when an argument was set before him, when it was a. 
good argument, even if it told against him, he would nevor 
refuse to acknowledge it. And conscience perhaps had said to 
him on various occasions what his daughter now said. He could 
bring forward nothing against it. He could only say, I choose it to 
be so; and this w’-ould bear no weight with Constance. “ You are 
not a bad dialectician,” he said. “Where did you learn your 
logic? Women are not usually strong in that point,” 

“Women are said to be just what it pleases men to represent 
them,” said Constance. “ Listen, papa. Frances would not* have 
said that to you that I have just said. But don’t you know that 
she would have thought it all the same? Because it is quite evi- 
dent and certain, you know. What did you say the other day of 
that Italian, that count something or other, who has the castle there 
on the hill, and never comes near it from one j^ear’s end ta 
another?” 

“ That is quite a different matter. There is no reason wdiy he 
should not spend a part of every year there. ’ ’ 

“And what reason is there with you? Only wdiat ought to be 
an additional reason for going — that you have — ” Here Constance,, 
paused a little, and grew pale. And her father looked up at her, 
growing pale too, anticipating a crisis. Another word, and he 
would be able to crush this young rebel, this meddler with things', 
which concerned her not. But Constance was better advised; she 
said hurriedly — “ relations and dependents, and ever so many things^ 
to look to — things that can not be settled without you.” 

“ And what may these be?” He had been so fully prepared for 
the introduction at this point of the mother, from whom Constance- 
too, had fled — the wife, who was, as he said to himself, the cause 
of all that was inharmonious in his own life — that the withdrawal 
of her name left him breathless, with the force of an impulse which 
was not needed. “What are the things that can not be settled 
without me?” 

“Well — for one thing, papa, your daughter’s marriage,” said. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 251 

Constance, still looking at him steadily, but with a sudden glow of 
color covering her face. 

“My daughter’s marriage?” he repeated vaguely, once more 
taken by surprise. “ What! has Frances already, in the course of 
a few weeks — ?” 

“ It is ve^ probable,” said Constance calmly. “ But I was not 
thinking of Frances. Perhaps you forget that I am your daughter 
too, and that your sanction is needed for me as well as for — ” 

Here W aring leaned toward her over the table. ‘ ‘ Is this how 
it has ended?” he said. “Have you really so little perception of 
what is possible for a girl of your breeding, as to think that a life 
in India with young Gaunt — ?” 

Constance grew crimson from her hair to the edge of her white 
dress. “ Captain Gaunt?” she said for the first time, avoiding her 
father’s eye. Then she burst into a laugh, which she felt was weak 
and half hysterical in its self-consciousness. “ Oh, no,” she said; 
“ that was only amusement — that was nothing. I hope, indeed, I 
Lave a little more — perception, as you say. What I meant was — ” 
Her eyes took a softened look, almost of entreaty, as if she wanted 
him to help her out. 

“ I did not know you had any second string to your bow,” he 
■said. Now was his time to avenge himself, and he took advantage 
■of it. 

“Papa,” said Constance, drawing herself up majestically, ”I 
have no second string to my bow. I have made a mistake. It is a 
thing which m.ay happen to any one. But when one does so, and 
sees it, the thing to do is to acknowledge and remedy it, I think. 
Some people, I am aware, are not of the same opinion. But I, for 
one, am not going to keep it up.” 

“You refer to — a mistake which has not been acknowledged?” 

“ Papa, don’t let us quarrel, you and me. I am very lonely — 
oh, dreadfully lonely! I want you to stand by me. What I refer 
'to is mj affair, not any one’s else. I find out now that Claude — of 
.course I told you his name — Claude — would suit me very well — 
Letter than any one else. There are drawbacks, perhaps; but I 
understand him, and he understands me. That is the great thing, 
isn’t it?” 

“ It is a great thing — if it lasts.” 

“ Oh, it would last. I know him as w^ell as I know^ myself.” 

“ I see,” said Waring slowly. “ You have made up your mind to 
return to England, and accomplish the destiny laid out for you. A 
very wise resolution, no doubt. It is only a pity that you did not 
think better of it at first, instead of turning my life upside down 
and causing everybody so much trouble. Never mind. It is to 
be hoped that your resolution will hold now; and there need be no 
more trouble m that case about finding a place in which to pass 
the summer. You are going, I presume — home?” 

This time the tears came very visibly to Constance’s eyes. There 
was impatience and vexation in them, as well as feeling. “ Where 
as home?” she said. “ I will have to ask you. The home I have 
been used to is my sister’s now. Oh, it is hard, I see, very hard, 
when you have made a mistake once, to mend it! The only home 
that I know of is an old house w^here the master htis not been for 


252 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


a long time — which is all overgrown with trees, and tumbling into 
ruins, for anything I know. But I suppose, unless you forbid me, 
that I have a right to go there — and perhaps Aunt Charlotte — ” 

“ Of what are you speaking?” he said, making an effort to keep 
his voice steady. 

” I am speaking of the Warren, papa.” 

At this he sprung up from his chair, as if touched by some in- 
tolerable recollection; then composing himself, sat down again, 
putting force upon himself, restraining the sudden impulse of ex- 
citement. After a time, he said; ” The Warren. I had almost for- 
gotten the name.” 

” Yes, so I thought. You forget that you have a home, which 
is cooler and quieter, as quiet as any of your villages here — where 
you would be as solitary as you liked, or see people if you liked — 
where you are the natural master. Oh, I thought you must have 
forgotten it! In summer, it is delightful. You are in the middle 
of a wood, and yet you are in a nice English house. Oh, an En- 
glish house is very different from those Palazzos. Papa, there is 
you mlleggiatura, as you call it, just what you want, far, far better 
than Mrs. Durant’s cheap little place, that she asked me to tell you 
of, or Mrs. Gaunt’s pension in Switzerland, or Homburg. They 
think you are poor; but you know quite well you are not poor. 
Take me to the Warren, papa; oh, take me home! It is there I 
want to go.” 

“The Warren,” he repeated to himself — “the Warren. I 
never thought of that. I suppose she has a right to it. Poor old 
place! Yes, I suppose, if the girl chooses to call it home — ” 

He rose up quite slowly this time, and went, as was his usual 
custom, toward the door which led through the other rooms to the 
loggia, but without paying any attention to the movements of 
Constance, which he generally followed instead of directing. She 
rose too, and went to him, and stole her hand through his arm. 
The awning had been put aside, and the soft night air blew in their 
faces as they stepped out upon that terrace in which so much of 
their lives was spent. The sun shone on the roofs of the houses 
on the Marina, and swept outward in a pale clearness toward the 
sk^, which was soft in summer blueness, with the stars sprinkled 
faintly over the vast vault, too much light still remaining in heaven 
and earth to show them at their best. Constance walked with her 
father, close to his side, holding his arm, almost as tall as he was, 
and keeping step and pace with him. She said nothing more, but 
stood by him as he walked to the ledge of the loggia ^and looked out 
toward the west, where there was still a lingering touch of gold/ 
He was not at all in the habit of expressing admiration of the land- 
scape, but to night, as if he were making a remark called forth by 
the previous argument, “ It is all very lovely,” he said. 

“Yes; but not more lovely than home,” said the girl. “ I have 
been at the Warren in a summer night, and everything was so 
sweet — the stars all looking through the trees as if they were watch- 
ing the house — and the scent of the flowers. Don’t you remember 
the white rose at the Warren, what they call Mother’s tree?” 

He started a little, and a thrill ran through him. She could feel it 
in his arm — a thrill of recollection, of things beyond the w’arfare 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 253 

and turmoil of his life, on the other, the boyish side — recollections 
of quiet and of peace. 

“ I think I will go to my own room a little, Constance, and smoke 
my cigarette there. You have brought a great many things to my 
mind.” 

She gave his arm a close pressure before she let it go. “Oh, 
take me to the AYarren! Let us go to our own home, papa.” 

“ I will think of it,” he replied. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Frances eat a mournful little dinner alone, after the agitations 
to which she had been subject. Her mother did not return; and 
Markham, who had been expected up to the last moment, did not 
appear. *It was unusual to her now to spend so many hours alone, 
— and her mind was oppressed not only by the strange scene with 
Nelly Winterbourn, but more deeply still by Claude’s news. 
George Gaunt had always been a figure of great interest to Frances; 
and his appearance here in the world which was as yet so strange, 
with his grave, indeed melancholy face, had awakened her to a sense 
of sympathy and friendliness which no one had called forth in her 
before. He was as strange as she was to that dazzling puzzle of 
society, sat silent as she did, roused himself into interest like her 
about matters which did not much interest anybody else. She had 
felt amid so many strangers that here was one whom she could 
always understand, whose thoughts she could follow, who said 
what she had been about to say. It made no difference to Frances 
that he had not signaled her out for special notice. She took that 
quietly, as a matter of course. Her mother, Markham, the other 
people who appeared and disappeared in the house, were all more 
interesting, she felt, than she; but sometimes her eyes had met 
those of Captain Gaunt in sympathy, and she had perceived that he 
could understand her, whether he wished to do so or not. And 
then he was Mrs. Gaunt’s youngest, of whom she had heard so 
much. It seemed to Frances that his childhood and her own had 
got all entangled, so that she could not be quite sure whether this 
and that incident of the nursery had been told of him or of herself. 
She was more familiar with him than he could be with her. And 
to hear that he was unhappy, that he was in danger, a stranger 
among people who preyed upon him, and yet not to be able to help 
him, was almost more than she could bear. 

She went up to the empty drawing-room, with the soft illumina- 
tion of many lights, which was habitual there, and which lay all 
decorated and bright, sweet with spring flowers, full of pictures 
and ornaments, like a deserted palace; and felt the silence and 
beauty of it to be dreary and terrible. It was like a desert to her, 
or rather like a prison, in which she must stay and wait and listen, 
and whatever might come, do nothing 1 o hinder it. What could 
she do? A girl could not go out into those haunts, where Claude 
Ramsay, though he was so delicate, could go; she could not put 
herself forward, and warn a man, who would think he knew much 
better than she could do. She sat down, and tried to i^ead; and 


254 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


then got up, and glided about from one table to another, 
from one picture to another, looking vaguely] at a score of 
things without seeing them. Then she stole within the shadow 
of the curtain, and looked out at the carriages which went 
and came, now and then drawing up at adjacent doors. It 
made her heart beat to see them approaching, to think that per- 
haps they were coming here — her mother perhaps; perhaps Sir 
Thomas; perhaps Markham. Was it possible that this night, of all 
others — this night, when her heart seemed to appeal to earth and 
heaven for some one to help her — nobody would come! It was 
. Prances’ first experience of these vigils, which to some women fill 
up so much of life. There had never Deen any anxiety at Bor- 
dighera, any disturbing influence. She had always known where 
to find her father, who could solve every problem and chase away 
every ditficultty. Would he, she wondered, be able to do so now? 
Would he, if he were here, go out for her, and find George Gaunt, 
and deliver him from his pursuers? But Frances could not say to 
herself that he would nave done so. He was not fond of disturbing 
himself. He would have said: “It is not my business,” he would 
have refused to interfere, as Claude did. And what could she do, 
a girl, by herself? Lady Markham had been very anxious to keep 
him out of harm’s "way; but she had said plainly that she would 
not forsake her own son in order to save the son of another woman. 
Frances was wandering painfully through labyrinths of such 
thoughts, racking her brain with vain questions as to what it was 
possible to do, when Markham’s hansom stopping with a sudden 
clang at the door drove her thoughts away, or at least made a 
break in them, and replaced, by a nervous tremor of excitement 
and alarm, the pangs of anxious expectation and suspense. She 
would rather not have seen Maikham at that moment. She was fond 
of her brother. It grieved her to hear even Lady Markham speak 
of him in questionable terms: all the natural prejudices of affec- 
tionate youth were enlisted on his side; but, for the first time, she 
felt that she had no confidence in Markham, and wished that it 
had been any one but him. 

He came in with a light overcoat over his evening clothes; he 
had been dining out; but he did not meet Frances w ith the unem- 
barrassed countenance w'hich she had thought w ould have made it 
so difficult to speak to him about wiiat she had heard. He came in 
hurriedly, looking round the drawing-room with a rapid investigat- 
ing glance, before he took any notice of Frances. “ Where is the 
' mother?” he asked hurriedly. 

“ She has not come back,” said Frances, divining from his look 
that it was unnecessary to say more. 

Markham sat . down abruptly on a sofa near. He did not make 
•any reply to her, but put up the handle of his cane to his mouth 
with a curious mixture of the comjc and the tragic, which struck 
her in spite of herself. He did not require to put any question; 
he knew" very w^ell where his mother was, and all that w'as happen- 
ing. The sense of the great crisis w'hich had arrived U ok from him 
all power of speech, paralyzing him, with mingled aw'e and dismay. 
But yet the odd little figure on the sofa sucking his cane, his hat 
-in his other hand, his features all fallen into bewilderment and help- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


255 

lessness, was absurd. Out of the depths of Frances’ trouble came a 
hysterical titter against her will, Tbis^ rouise^S Mm also. He 
looked at her with a faint evanescent smile. 

“ Laughing at me, Fan? Well, I don’t wonder. I am a nice 
fellow to have to do with a tragedy. Screaming farce is more like 
my style.” 

” I did not laugh, Markham”; I have not any heart for laughing,, 
she said, 

” Oh, didn’t you? But it sounded like it. Fan, tell me, has the 
mother been long away, and did any one see that unfortunate girl 
when she was here?” 

“ No, Markham — unless it were Mr. Ramsay; he saw her drive 
away with mamma. ” 

“The worst of old gossips,” he said, desperately sucking his 
cane, with a gloomy brow. “ I don’t know an old woman so bad. 
No quaiter there — that is the word. Fan, the mother is a trump. 
Nothing is so bad when she is mixed up in it. Was Nelly much 
cut up, or was she in one of her wild fits? Poor girl! You must 
not think badly of Nelly, She has had hard lines. She never had 
a chance; an old brute, used up, that no woman could take to. But 
she has done her duty by him, Fan.” 

“ She does not think so, Markham.” 

“ Oh, by Jove, she was giving you that, was she? Fan, I some- 
times tliink poor Nelly’s off her head a little. -Poor Nelly, poor 
girl! I don’t want to set her up for an example; but she has done 
her duty by him. Remember this, whatever you may hear. I — 
am rather a good one to know.” 

He gave a curious little chuckle as he said this — a sort of stran- 
gled laugh, of which he was ashamed, and stilled it in its birth. 

■’ Markham,^! want to speak to you — about something very se- 
rious, ’ ’ 

He gave a keen look at her sideways from the corner of one eye.. 
Then he said in a sort of whisper to himself, “Preaching;” but 
added in his own voice: “ Fire away. Fan,” with a look of resigna- 
tion. 

“ Markham — it is about Captain Gaunt.” 

“ Oh!” he cried He gave a little laugh. “ You frightened me,, 
my dear, I thought at this time of the day you were going to give 
me a sermon from the depths of your moral experience, Fan, Sa 
long as it isn’t about poor Nelly, say what you please about Gaunt. 
What about Gaunt?” 

“ Oh, Markham, Mr. Ramsay told me — and mamma has been 
frightened ever since he came. What have you done with him,. 
Markham? Don’t you remember the old general at Bordighera — 
and his mother? And he had just come from India, for his holiday,, 
after years and years. And they are poor — that is to say, they are 
well enough off for them; but they are not like mamma and you. 
They have not got horses and carriages; they don’t live — as you do.”^ 

“ As I do! lam the poorest little beggar living, and that is the 
truth, Fan.” 

The poorest! Markham, you may think you can laugh at me, I 
am not clever; I am quite ignorant— that I know. But how can 
you say you are poor? You don’t know what it is to be poor. 


256 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


"When they go away in the summer, they choose little quiet places; 
they spare everything they can. That is one thing I know better 
than you do. To say you are poor!” 

He rose up and came toward her, and* taking her hands in his, 
gave them a squeeze which was painful, though he was uncon- 
scious of it. “ Fan,” he said, “ all that is very pretty, and true for 
you. But if I hadn’t been poor, do you think all this would have 
happened as it has done? Do you think I’d have stood by and 
let Nelly marry that fellow? Do you think—? Hush! there’s the 
mother, with news; no doubt, she’s got news. Fan, wdiat d’ye 
think it’ll be?” 

He held her hands tight, and pressed them till she had almost 
cried out, looking in her face with a sort of nervous smile which 
twitched at the corners of his mouth, looking in her eyes as if into a 
mirror where he could see the reflection of something, and so be 
spared the pain of looking directly at it. She saw that the subject 
which was of so much interest to her had passed clean out of his 
head. His own affairs were uppermost in Markham’s mind, as is 
generally the case when a man can be supposed to have any affairs 
at all of his own. 

And Frances, kept in this position, as a sort of mirror in which 
he could see the reflection of his mother’s face, saw Lady Markham 
come in, looking very pale and fatigued, with that air of having 
worn her out-door dress for hours which gives a sort of haggard 
aspect to weariness. She gave a glance round, evidently without 
perceiving very clearly who was there, then sunk wearily upon the 
sofa, loosening her cloak. “It is all over,” she said in a low tone, 
as if speaking to herself — “ it is all over. Of course, I could not 
come away before — ’ ’ 

Markham let go Frances’ hands without a word. He walked 
away to the further window, and drew the curtain aside and looked 
out. Why, he could not have told, nor with what pui-pose — with a 
vague intention of making sure that the hansom, which stood there 
so constantly, was at the door. 

“ What is Markham doing?” said his mother with a faint queru- 
lous tone. “ Tell him not to fidget with these curtains. It worries 
me. I am tired, and my nerves are all wrong. Yes, you can take 
my cloak, Frances. Don’t call anybody. No one will come here 
to-night. Markliam, did you hear what I said? It is all over. I 
waited till — ” 

He came toward her from the end of the room with a sort of 
smile upon his gray sandy-colored face, his mouth and eyebrows 
twitching, his eyes screwed up so that nothing but two keen little 
glimmers of reflection were visible. “ You are not the sort,” he 
said, with a little tremor in his voice, “ to forsake a man when he is 
down.” He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders pushed up; 
nowhere could there have been seen a less tragic figure. Yet every 
line of his odd face was touched and moving with feeling, totally 
beyond any power of expression in words. 

“ It was not a happy scene,” she said. “ He sent for her at the 
last. Sarah Winterbourn was there at the bedside. She was fond 
of him, I believe. A woman can not help being fond of her brother, 
however little he may deserve it. Nelly — ” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


257 

Here Markham broke in with a sound that was like, yet not like, 
his usual laugh. “ How’s Nelly?” he said abruptly, without se- 
quence or reason. Lady Markham paused to look at him, and then 
went on : 

“Nelly trembled so, I could scarcely keep her up. She wanted 
not to go; she said what was the good? But I got her persuaded at 
last. A man dying like that is a — is a — It is not a pleasant sight. 
He signed to her to go and kiss him.” Lady Markham shuddered 
slightly. “ He was past speaking — I mean, he was past understand- 
ing. I — I wish I had not seen it. One can’t get such a scene out of 
one’s mind.” 

She put up her hand and pressed her fingers upon her eyes, as if 
the picture was there, and she was tiying to get rid of it. Markham 
had turned away again, and was examining, or seeming to examine, 
the flowers in a jardiniere. Now and then he made a movement, 
as if he would have stopped the narrative. Frances, trembling and 
crjung with natural horror and distress, had loosened her mother’s 
cloak and taken off her bonnet while she went on speaking. Lady 
Markham’s hair, though always covered with a cap, wAs as brown 
and smooth as her daughter’s. Frances put her hand upon it 
timidly and smoothed the satin braid. It was all she could do to 
show the emotion, the sympathy in her heart; and she was as much 
startled in mind as physically, wdien Lady Markham suddenly threw 
one arm round her and rested her head upon her shoulder. “ Thank 
God,” the mother cried, “ that here is one, whatever may happen, 
that will never, never — Frances, my love, don’t mind what I say. 
I am worn out, and good for nothing. Go and get me a little wine, 
for I have no strength left in me. ’ ’ 

Markham turned to her with his chuckle more marked than ever, 
as Frances left the room. “ I am glad to see that you have strength 
to remember what you’re about, mammy, in spite of that little 
break-down. It wouldn’t do, would it? — to let Frances believe that 
a match like Winterbourn was ^ thing she would never — never — 
though it w’asn’t amiss for poor Nelly, in her day.” 

“ Markham, you are very hard upon me. The child did not un- 
derstand either one thing or the other. And I was not to blame 
about Nelly; you can not say I was to blame. If I had been, I 
think to-night might make up; that ghastly face, and Nelly’s close 
to it, with her eyes staring in horror, the poor little mouth — ” 

Markham’s exclamation was short and sharp like a pistol-shot. 
It was a monosyllable, but not one to be put into print. “ Stop 
that!” he said. “ It can do no good going over it. Who’s with 
her now?” 

“ I could not stay, Markham; besides, it would have been out of 
place. She has her maid, who is very kind to her; and I made 
them give her a sleeping-draught — to make her foiget her trouble. 
Sarah Winterbourne laughed out when I asked for it. The doctor 
was shocked. It vras so natural that poor little Nelly, who never 
saw anything so ghastly, never was in the house with death; never 
saw, much less touched — ” 

“ I can understand Sarah,” he said, with a grim smile. 

Frances came back with the wine, and her mother paused to ki^s 
her as she took it from her hand. “lam sure you have had a 
9 


258 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


wearing, miserable evening. You look quite pale, my dear. I 
ought not to speak of such horrid things • before you at your age. 
But you see, Markham, she saw Nelly, and heard her wild talk. It 
was '^all excitement and misery and overstrain; for in reality she 
had nothing to reproach herself with — nothing, Frances. He provedl 
that by sending for her, as I tell you. He knew, and everybody 
knows that poor Nelly had done her duty by him.” 

Frances paid little attention to this strange defense. She was, as? 
her mother knew, yet could scarcely believe, totally incapable of 
comprehending the grounds on which Nelly was so strongly as- 
serted to have done her duty, or of understanding that not to have 
wronged her husband in the one unpardonable way, gave her a 
claim upon the applause of her fellows. Fortunately, indeed,. 
Frances was defended against all questions on this subject by the- 
possession of that unsuspected trouble of her own, of which she felt 
that for the night at least it was fulile to say anything. Nelly was 
the only subject upon which her mother could speak, or for Avhich 
MarkhW had any ears. They did not say anything either after 
Fjances left them, or in her presence, of the future, of which, na 
doubt, their minds were full — of which Nelly’s mind had been so 
full when she burst into Lady Markham’s room in her finery, on 
that very day. What was to happen after what “the widow” — 
that name against which she so rebelled, but which was already 
fixed upon her in all the clubs and drawing-rooms — was to do; that 
was a question which was not openly put to each other by the two 
persons chiefly concerned. 

When Markham appeared in his usual haunts that night he was- 
aware of being r(>garded with many significant looks; but these he 
was of course prepared for, and met with a countenance in which 
it would have puzzled the wisest to find any special expression. 

Lady Markham went to bed as soon as her son left her. She had 
said she could receive no one, being much fatigued. “ My lady have 
been with Mrs. Winterbourn,” was the answer made to Sir Thomas- 
when he came to the door late, after a tedious debate in the House- 
of Commons. Sir Thomas, like everybody, was full of speculations, 
on this subject, though he regarded the subject from a point of view 
different from the popular one. The world was occupied with the 
question whether Nelly would marry Markliam, now that she was- 
' rich and free. But what occupied Sir Thomas, who had no doubt 
on this suDject, was the — afterward? What would Lady Markham 
do? AVas it not now at last the moment for Waring to come home?' 

In Lady Markham’s mind, some similar thoughts were afloat^ 
She had said that she was fatigued; but fatigue does not mean, 
sleep, at least not at Lady Markham’s age. It means retirement,, 
silence, and leisuie for the far more fatiguing exertion of thought. 
AVhen her maid had been dismissed, and the faint night-lamp was- 
all that was left in her curtained, cushioned, luxurious room, the 
questions that arose in her mind were manifold. Markham’s mar- 
riage would make a wonderful difference in his mother’s life. Her 
house in Eaton Square she would no doubt retain; but the lovely 
little house in the Isle of AVight, which had been always hers — the 
solemn establi.shment in the country would be hers no more. These 
two things of themselves would make a great difference. But what. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


359 


Tvas of still more consequence was that Markham himself would be 
hers no more. He would belong to his wife. It was impossible to 
believe of him that he would ever be otherwise than affectionate and 
kind; but what a difference when Markham was no longer one of 
the household! And then the husband, so long cut off, so far sepa- 
rated, much by distance, more by the severance of all the habits and 
mutual claims which bind people together — with him what would 
follow? What would be the effect of the chantje? Questions like 
these, diversified by perpetual efforts of imagination to bring before 
her again the tragical scene of which she had been a witness— the 
dying man with his hoarse attempts to be intelligible — the young, 
haggard, horrified countenance of Nelly, compelled to approach the 
awful figure, for which she had a child’s dread, kept her awake 
long info the night. It is seldom that a woman of her age sees her- 
self on the eve of such changes without any will of hers. It seemed 
to have overwhelmed her in a moment, although, indeed, she had 
foreseen the catastrophe. What would Nelly do? was the question 
all the world was asking. But Lady Markham had another which 
occupied her as much on her side. Waring, what would he do? 


CHAPTER XLII. 

The question which disturbed Frances, which nobody knew or 
cared for, was just as little likely to gain attention next day as it 
had been on the evening of Mr. Winterbourn’s death. Lady Mark- 
ham returned to Nelly before breakfast; she was with her most of 
the day; and Markham, though he lent an apparent attention to 
what Frances said to him, was still far too much absorbed in his 
own subject to be easily moved by hers. “Gaunt. Oh, he is all 
right,” he said. 

“ Will you speak to him, Markham? Will you warn him? Mr. 
Ramsay says he is losing all his money; and I know, oh, Markham, 
I know that he has not much to lose.” 

“ Claude is a little meddler. I assure you. Fan, Gaunt knows 
ills own affairs best.” 

“ No,” cried Frances; “ when I tell you, Markham, when I tell 
you! that they are quite poor, really poor — not like you.” 

“ I have told you, my little dear, that I am the poorest beggar in 
London.” 

“ Oh, Markham! and you drive about in hansoms, and smoke 
cigars all day.” 

“ Well, my dear, what would you have me do? Keep on trudg- 
ing through the mud, which would waste all my time; or get on 
the knife-board of an omnibus? Well, these are the only alterna- 
tives. The omnibuses have their recommendation — they are fun; 
but after awhile, society in that development palls upon the intelli- 
gent observer. What do you want me to do. Fan? Come, I have 
a deal on my mind; but to please you, and to make you hold your 
tongue, if there is anything I can do, I will try.” 

“ You can do everything, Markham. Warn him that he is wast- 
ing his money — that he is spending what belongs to the old people 
— that he is making himself wretched. Oh, don’t laugh, Mark- 


260 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


ham! Oh, if I were in your place! I know what I should do — I 
would get him to go home, instead of going to — those places. ’ ’ 

“ Which places. Fan?” 

” Oh,” cried the girl, exasperated to tears, “ how can I tell?— the 
places you know — the places you have taken him to, Markham — 
places where, if the poor general knew it, or Mrs. Gaunt — ” 

“ There you are making a mistake, little Fan. The good people 
would think their son was in very fine company. If he tells them 
the names of the persons he meets they will think — ” 

“ Then you know they will think wrong, Markham!” she cried, 
almost with violence, keeping herself with a most strenuous effort 
from an outburst of indignant weeping. He did not reply at once; 
and she thought he was about to consider the question on its merits, 
and endeavor to find out what he could do. But she was undeceived 
when he spoke. 

” What day did you say. Fan, the funeral was to be?” he asked, 
with the air of a man who has escaped from an unwelcome intrusion 
to the real subject of his thoughts. 

Sir Thomas found her alone, flushed and miserable, drying her 
tears with a feverish little angry hand. She was very much alone 
during these days when Lady Markham was so much with Nelly 
Winterbourn. Sir Thomas was pleased to find her, having also an 
object of his own. He soothed her, when he saw that she had been 
crying. “ Never mind me,” he said; “ but you must not let other 
people see that you are feeling it so much, for you can not be sup- 
posed to take any particular interest in Winterbourn; and people 
will immediately suppose that you and your mother are troubled 
about the changes that must take place in the house.” 

“ I was not thinking at all of Mrs. Winterbourn,” cried Frances, 
with indignation. 

“ No, my dear; I know you could not be. Don’t let any one but 
me see you crying. Lady Markham will feel the marriage dread- 
fully, I know. But now is our time for our grand coup.'" 

” What grand coup ?" the girl said, with an astonished look. 

“ Have you forgotten what I said to you at the Priory? One of 
the chief objects of my life is to bring Waring back. It is intoler- 
able to think that a man of his abilities should be banished forever, 
and lost not only to his country but his kind. Even if he were 
working for the good of the race out there — But he is doing noth- 
ing but antiquities so far as I can hear, and there are plenty of anti- 
quarians good for nothing else. Frances, we must have him home, ” 
“ Home,” she said. Her heart went back with a bound to the 
rooms in the Palazzo with all the green shut, ami every- 

thing dark and cool. It was getting warm in London, but there 
were no such precautions taken; and the loggia at night, with the 
palm-trees waving majestically their long drooping fans, and the 
soft sound of the sea coming over the houses of the Marina — ah, 
and the happy want of thought, the pleasant vacancy, in which 
nothing ever happened. She drew a long breath. “ I ought not to 
say so, perhaps; but when you say home — ” 

“You think of the place where you were brought up? That is 
quite natural. But it would not be the same to him. He was not 
brought up there; he can have nothing to interest him there. De- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 261 

pend upon it, he must very often wish that he could pocket his pride 
and come back. We must try to get him back, Frances. Don’t 
you think, my dear, that we could manage it, you and I?” 

Frances shook her head, and said she did not know. “ But I 
should be very glad. Oh, very glad; if I am to stay here,” she 
said. 

‘ ‘ Of course you would be glad; and of course you are to stay 
here. You could not leave your poor mother by herself. And now 
that Markham — now that probably everything will be changed for 
Markham — If Markham were out of the way, it would be so much 
easier; for, you know, he always was the stumbling-block. She 
would not let Waring manage him, and she could not manage him 
herself. ’ ’ 

Frances was so far instructed in what was going on around her 
that she knew how important in Markham’s history the death of 
Mr. Winterboum had been; but it was not a .subject on which she 
could speak. She said : ‘ ‘ I am very sorry papa did not like Mark- 
ham. It does not seem possible not to like Markham. But I sup- 
pose gentlemen — Oh, Sir Thomas, if he were here, I should ask 
papa to do something for me; but now I don’t know who to ask to 
help me — if anything can be done.” 

” Is it something I can do?”^ 

“I think,” she said, “any one that was kind could do it; but 
only not a girl. Girls are good for so little. Do you remember 
Captain Gaunt who came to town a few weeks ago? Sir Thomas, 
I have heard that something has happened to Captain Gaunt. I 
don’t know how to tell you. Perhaps you will think that it is not 
my business; but don’t you think it is your friend’s bu.siness, when 
you get into trouble? Don’t you think that — that people who know 
you — who care a little for you — should always be ready to help?” 

“ That is a hard question to put to me. In the abstract, yes; but 
in particular cases — Is it Captain Gaunt for whom you care a 
little?” 

Frances hesitated a moment, and then she answered boldly: “Yes 
— at least I care for his people a great deal. And he has come home 
from India, not very strong; and he knew nothing about — about 
what you call society; no more than I did. And now I hear that 
he is — I don’t know how to tell you. Sir Thomas — losing all his 
money (and he has not any money) in the places where Markham 
goes; in the places that Markham took him to. Oh, wait till I have 
said everything. Sir Thomas; they are not rich people; not like any 
of you here. Markham says he is poor.” 

“ So he is, Frances.” 

“Ah,” she cried, with hasty contempt, “but you don’t understand 
He may not have much money; but they — they live in a little 
hoise with two maids and Toni. They have no luxuries or grandeur 
When they take a drive in old Luca’s carriage, it is something to 
think about. All that is quite, quite different from you people 
here. Don’t you see. Sir Thomas, don’t you see? And Captain 
(5aunt has been — oh, I don’t know how it is — losing his money; and 
he has not got any — and he is miserable — and I can not get any one 
to take an interest, to tell him — to warn him, to get him to give 
up — ” 


262 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


“ Did he tell you all this himself?” said Sir Thomas, gravely. 

‘‘Oh, no, not a word. It was Mr. Ramsay who told me; and 
when I begged him to say something, to warn him — ” 

‘‘ He could not do that. There he was quite right; and you were 
quite wrong, if you will let me say so. It is too common a case, 
alas! I don’t know what any one could do.” 

‘‘Oh, Sir Thomas! if you will think of the old general and his 
‘mother, who love him more than all the rest; for he is the young- 
est. Oh, won’t you do something, try something to save him?” 
Frances clasped her hands, as if in prayer. She raised her eyes to 
his face with such an eloquence of entreaty that his heart was 
touched. Not only was her whole soul in the petition for the sake 
of him who was in peril, but it was full of boundless confidence 
and trust in the man to whom she appealed. Tlie other plea might 
have failed; but this last can scarcely fail to affect the mind of any 
individual to whom it is addressed. 

Sir Thomas put his hand on her shoulder with fatherly tender- 
ness. ‘‘ Mv dear little girl,” he said, ‘‘ what do you think I can 
do? I donT know what I can do. I am afraid I should only make 
things worse, were I to interfere.” 

“No, no. He is not like that. He would know you were a 
friend. He would be thankful. And oh, how thankful, how 
thankful I should be!” 

‘‘ Frances, do you take, then, so great an interest in this young 
man? Do you want me to look after him for your sake?” 

She looked at him hastily with an eager ‘‘ Yes ” — then paused a 
little and looked again with a dawning understanding which brought 
the color to her cheek. ” You mean something more than I mean,” 
she said, a little troubled. ‘ ‘ But yet, if you will be kind to George 
Gaunt, and try to help him, for my sake. Yes, oh, yes. Why 
should I refuse? I would not have asked you if I had not thought 
that perhaps you would do it — for me.” 

“I would do a great deal for jmu; for your mother’s daughter, 
much; and for poor Waring’s child; and again, for yourself. But, 
Frances, a young man who is so weak, who falls into temptation in 
this way — my dear, you must let me say it — he is not a mate for 
such as you.” 

‘‘For me? Oh, no. No one thought — no one ever thought — ” 
cried Frances hastily. ‘ ‘ Sir Thomas, I hear mamma coming, and 
I do not want to trouble her, for she has so much to think of. Will 
you? Oh, promise me. Look for him to-night, oh, look for him 
to-night!” 

” You are so sure that I can be of use?” The trust in her eyes 
was so genuine, so enthusiastic, that he could not resist that d^at- 
tery. ” Yes, I will try. I will see what it is possible to do. And 
you, Frances, remember you are pledged, too; you are to do every- 
thing you can for me.” 

He was patting her on the shoulder, looking down upon her with 
very friendly tender eyes, when Lady Markham, came in. She was 
a little startled by the group; but though she was tired and discom- 
posed and out of heart, she was not so preoccupied but what her 
quick mind caught a new suggestion from it. Sir Thomas was very 
rich. He had been devoted to herself, in all honor and kindness, 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


203 


for many years. What if Frances — ? A whole train of new ideas 
burst into her thoughts on the moment, although she had thought 
as she came in, that in that present chaos and hurry of her spirits 
she had room for nothing more. 

“You look,” she said with a smile, “ as if you were settling 
something. What is it? An alliance, a league?” 

“ Offensive and defensive,” said Sir Tljomas. “ We have given 
each other mutual commissions, and we are great friends, as you 
see. But these are our little secrets, which we don’t mean to tell. 
How is Nelly, Lady Markham? And is it all right about the will?” 

“ The will is the least of my cares. I could not inquire into that, 
as you may suppose; nor is there any need, so far as I know. Nelly 
is quite enough 1o have on one’s hands, without thinking of the 
will. She is very nervous and verj'’ headstrong. She would have 
rushed away out of the house, if I had not used — almost force. She 
can not bear to be under the same roof with death.” 

“ It was the old way. I scarcely wonder, for my part; for it was 
never pretended, I suppose, that there was any love in the matter.” 

“ Dh, no ” (Lady Markham looked at her own elderly knight and 
at her young daughter, and said to herself. What if Frances — ?); 
“ there was no love. But she has always been very good, and done 
her duty by him — that, everybody will say.” 

“ Poor Nelly. That is quite true. But still I should not like, if 
I were such a fool as to marry a young wife, to have her do her 
duty to me in that way. ’ ’ 

“You would be very different,” said Lady Markham with a 
smile. “ I should not think you a fool at all; and I should think 
her a 'lucky woman.” She said this with Nelly Winterbourn’s 
voice still ringing in her ears. 

“ Happily, I am not going to put it to the trial. — Now, I must go 
— to look after your affairs. Miss Frances; and remember, that you 
are pledged to look after mine in return.” 

Lady "Markham looked after him very curiously as he went away. 
She thought, as women so often think, that men were veiy strange, 
inscrutable — “mostly fools,” at least in one way. To think that 
perhaps little Frances — It would be a great match, greater than 
Claude Ramsay — as good in one point of view, and in other re- 
spects far better than Nelly St. John’s great marriage with the rich 
Mr Winterbourn. “ I am glad you like him so much, Frances,” 
she said. “He is not young; but he has every other quality; as 
good as ever man was, and so considerate and kind. You may 
take him into your confidence fully.” She waited a moment to see 
if the child had anything to say; then, too wise to force or precipi- 
tate matters, went on: “ Po( ^Nelly gives me great anxiety, Fran- 
ces. I wish the funeral were over, and all well. Her nerves are in 
such an excited state, one can’t feel sure what she may do or say. 
The servants and people happily think it grief; but to see Sarah 
Winterbourn looking at her fills me with fright, I can’t tell why. 
8he doesn’t think it is grief. And how should it be? A dreadful, 
cold, always ill, repulsive man. But I hope she may be kept quiet, 
not to make a scandal until after the funeral at least. I don’t know 
what she said to you, my love, that day; but you must not pay any 
attention to what a woman says in such an excited state. Her mar- 


264 


A HOUSE DIYIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


riage has been unfortunate (which is a thing that may happen in 
any circumstances), not because Mr. Winterbourn Avas such a good 
marriage, but because he was such a disagreeable man.” 

. Frances, who had no clew to her mother’s thoughts, or to any ap- 
propriateness in this little speech, had little interest in it. She said, 
somewhat stiffly, that she was sorry for poor Mrs. Winterbourn — 
but much more sorry for her own mother, who was having so much 
trouble and anxiety. Lady Markham smiled upon her, and kissed 
her tenderly. It was a relief to her mind, in the midst of all those 
anxious questions, to have a new channel for her thoughts; and 
upon this new path she threw herself forth in the fullness of a lively 
imagination, leaving fact far behind, and even probability. She 
-was indeed quite conscious of this, and voluntarily permitted her- 
self the pleasant exercise of building a new castle in the air. Little 
Frances! And she said to herself there would be no drawback in 
such a case. It would be the finest match of the season ; and no 
mother need fear to trust her daughter in Sir Thomas’s hands. 

Sir Thomas came back next morning wdien Lady Markham was 
again absent. He told Frances that he had gone to several places 
where he was told Captain Gaunt was likely to be found, and had 
seen Markham as usual ” frittering himself away;” but Gaunt had 
nowhere been visible. ‘ ‘ Some one said he had fallen ill. If that 
is so, it is the best thing that could happen. One has some hope of 
getting hold of him so.” But where did he live? That was the ques- 
tion. Markham did not know, nor any one about. That was the 
first thing to be discovered. Sir Thomas said. For the first time, 
Frances appreciated her mother’s business-like arrangements for her 
great correspondence, which made an address-book so necessary. 
She found Gaunt’s address there; and passed the rest of the day in 
anxiety, which she could confide to no one, learning for the first 
time those tortures of suspense which to so many women form a 
great part of existence. Frances thought the day would never end. 
It was so much the more dreadful to her that she had to shut it all 
up in her own bosom, and endeavor to enter into other anxieties, 
and sympathize with her mother’s continual panic as to what Kelly 
Winterbourn might do. The house altogether was in a state of sup- 
pressed excitement; even the servants — or perhaps the servants most 
keenly of any, with their quick curiosity and curious divination of 
any changes in the atmosphere of a family — feeling the thrill of ap- 
proaching revolution. Frances 'with her private preoccupation was 
blunted to this; but when Sir Thomas arrived in the evening, it 
was all she could do to curb herself and keep within the limits of 
ordinary rule. She sprung up, indeed, wdien she heard his step on 
the stair, and "went off to the furthd!' corner of the room, where she 
could read his face out of the dimness; and where, perhaps, he 
might seek her, and tell her, under some pretence : these move- 
ments were keenly noted by her mother, as was also the alert air of 
Sir Thomas, and his interest and activity, though he looked very 
grave. But Frances did not require to w^ait for the news she looked 
for so anxiously. 

” Yes, I am very serious,” Sir Thomas said in answer to Lady 
Markham’s question. “I have news to tell you which will shock 
you. Your poor young friend Gaunt — Captain Gaunt — wasn’t he a 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 265 

friend of yours? — is lying dangerously ill of fever in a poor little 
set of lodgings he has got. He is far too ill to know me or say any- 
thing to me; but so far as I can make out, it has something to ao 
with losses at play. ” 

Lady Markham turned pale with alarm and horror. “ Oh, I have 
always been afraid of this. I had a presentiment,” she cried. Then 
rallying a little: But, Sir Thomas, no one thinks now that fever 
is brought on by mental causes. It must be bad water or defective 
drainage.” 

“ It may be — anything. I can’t tell; I am no doctor. But the 
fact is, the young fellow is lying delirious, raving. I heard him 
myself; about stakes and chances and losses, and how he will make 
it up to-morrow. There are other things too. He seems to have 
had hard lines, poor fellow, if all is true.” 

Frances had rushed forward, unable to restrain herself. “Oh, 
his mother, his mother — we must send for his mother,” she cried. 

“ I will go and see him to-morrow,” said Lady Markham. “ I 
had a presentiment. He has been on my mind ever since I saw him 
first. I blame myself for losing sight of him. But to-morrow — ” 

“ To-morrow — to-morrow; that is what the poor fellow says.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

Lady Markham did not forget her promise. Whatever else a 
great lady may forget in these days, her sick people, her hospitals, 
she is sure never to forget. She went early to the lodgings, which 
were not far off, hidden in one of the quaint corners of little old 
lanes behind Piccadilly, where poor Gaunt was. She did not object 
to the desire of Frances to go with her, nor to the anxiety she 
showed. The man was ill; he had become a “ case;” it was nat- 
ural and right that he should be an object of interest. For herself, 
so far as Lady Markham’s thoughts were free at all, George Gaunt 
was much more than a case to her. A little while ago, she would 
have given him a large share in her thoughts, with a remorseful 
consciousness, almost of a personal part in the injury which had 
been done him. But now there were so many other matters in the 
foreground of her mind, that this, though it gave her one sharp 
twinge, and an additional desire to do all that could be done for 
him, had yet fallen into the background. Besides, things had ar- 
rived at a climax; there was no longer any means of delivering him, 
no further anxiety about his daily movements; there he la}^ incap- 
able of further action. It was miserable, yet it was a relief. Mark- 
ham and Markham’s associates had no more power over a sick man. 

Lady Markham managed her affairs always in a business-like 
way. "She sent to inquire what was the usual hour of the doctor’s 
visit, and timed her arrival so as to meet him and receive all the in- 
formation he could give. Even the medical details of the case were 
not beyond Lady Markham’s comprehension. She had a brief but 
very full consultation with the medical man in the little parlor 
down-stairs, and promptly issued her orders for nurses and all that 
could possibly be wanted for the patient. Two nurses at once — one 
for the day, and the other for the night; ice by the cart-load; the 
street to be covered with hay; any traffic that it was possible to stop. 


266 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


arrested. These directions Frances heard while she sat anxious and 
trembling in the brougham, and w'atched the doctor — a humble and 
undistinguished practitioner of the neighborhood, stirred into excited 
interest by the sudden appearance of the great lady with her liberal 
ideas, upon the scene — hurrying away. Lady Markliam then dis- 
appeared again into the house, the little trim shallow London lodg- 
ing-house, with a few scrubby plants in its little balconies on the 
first floor, where the windows were open, but veiled by sun-blinds. 
Something that sounded like incessant talking came from these 
windows, a sound to which Frances paid no attention at first, think- 
ing it nothing but a conversation, though curiously carried on 
without break or pause. But after a w^hile the monotony of the 
sound gave her a painful sensation. The street was very quiet 
even without the hay. Now and then a cart or carriage would 
come round the corner, taking a short-cut from one known locality 
to another. Sometimes a street cry would echo through the sun- 
shine. A cart full of flowering plants, with a hoarse- voiced proprietor, 
Tvent along in stages, stopping here and there; but through all ran 
the strain of talk, monologue or conversation, never interrupted. 
The sound affected the girl’s nerves, she could not tell why. She 
opened the door of the brougham at last, and went into the narrow 
little doorway of the house, where it became more distinct, a persist- 
ent dull strain of speech. All was deserted on the lower floor, the door 
of the sitting-room standing open, the narrow staircase leading to 
the sick man’s rooms above. Frances felt her interest, her eager 
curiosity grow at every moment. She ran lightly, quickly upstairs. 
The door of ihe front room, the room with the balconies, was ajar; 
and now it became evident that the sound was that of a single voice, 
hoarse, not always articulate, talking. Oh, the weary strain of 
talk, monotonous, unending — sometimes rising faintly, sometimes 
falling lower, never done, without a pause. That could not be 
raving, Frances said to herself. Oh, not raving! Cries of excite- 
ment and passion would have been comprehensible. But there was 
something more awful in the persistency of the dull choked voice. 
She said to herself it was not George Gaunt’s voice: she did not 
know what it w^as. But as she put forth all these arguments to her- 
self, trembling, she drew ever nearer and nearer to the door. 

“ Red — red — and red. Stick to my color: my color — my coat, 
Markham, and the ribbon. Yes, her ribbon. I say red. Play, 
play — all play — always; amusement: her ribbon, red. No, no; not 
red, black, color death — no color, means nothing, all nothing. 
Markham, play. Gain or lose — all — all . nothing kept back. Red, 
I say; and red — blood — blood color. Mother, mother! no, it’s 
black, black. No blood— no blood — no reproach. Death — makes 
up all — death. Black — red — black — all death colors, all death, 
death.” Then there was a little change in the voice. “Constance? 
— India; no, no; not India. Anywhere — give up everything. 
Amusement, did you say amusement? Don’t say so, don’t say so. 
Sport to you — but death, death, color of death. Black, or red — 
blood, all death colors, death. Mother! don’t put on black — red 
ribbons like hers — red. Heart’s blood. Not the bullet — her little 
hand, little white hand — and then blood-red. Constance! Play — 
play— nothing left— play . ’ ’ / 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 367 

Frances stcx)d outside and shuddered. Was this, then, what they 
called raving? She shrunk within herself; her heart failed her; a 
sickness which took the light from her eyes, made her limbs tremble 
and her head swim. Oh, what sport had he been to the two — the 
two who were nearest to her in the world! What had they done 
with him, Mrs. Graunt’s boy — the youngest, the favorite? There 
swept through the girl’s mind like a bitter wind a cry against — Fate 
was it, or providence? Had they but let alone, had each stayed in 
her own place, it would have been Frances who should have met, 
with a fresh heart, the young man’s early fancy. They would have 
met sincere and faithful, and loved each other, and all would have 
been well. But there was no Frances; there was only Constance, 
to throw his heart away. She seemed to see it all as in a picture — 
Constance with the red ribbons on her gray dress, with the smile 
that said it was only amusement; with the* little hand, the little 
white hand that gave the blow. And then all play, all play, red or 
black, what did it matter? and the bullet; and the mother in mourn- 
ing, and Markham. Constance and Markham! murderers. This 
was the cry that came from the bottom of the girl’s heart. Mur- 
derers! — Di two; of him and of herself; of the happiness that was 
justly hers, wdiich at this moment she claimed, and wildly asserted 
her right to have, in the clamor of her angry heart. She seemed to 
see it all in a moment: how he was hers; how she had given her 
heart to him before she ever sa’w him; how she could have made 
him happy. She would not have shrunk from India or anywhere. 
She would have made him happy. And Constance, for a jest, had 
come between; for amusement, had broken his heart. And Mark- 
ham, for amusement — for amusement! had destroyed his life; and 
hers as well. There are moments when the gentle and simple mind 
becomes more terrible than any fury. She saw it all as in a picture 
— with one clear sudden revelation. And her heart rose against it 
with a sensation of wrong which was intolerable — of misery, which 
she could not, would not bear. 

She pushed open the door, scarcely knowing what she did. The 
bed was pulled out from the wall, almost into the center of the 
room; anil behind, while this strange husky monologue of confused 
passion was going on unnoted. Lady Markham and the landlady 
stood together talking in calm undertones of the treatment to be em- 
ployed. Frances’ senses, all stimulated to the highest point, took 
in, without meaning to do so, every particular of the scene and 
every word that was said. 

“ I can do no good by staying now,” Lady Markham was say- 
ing. “ There is so little to be done at this stage. The ice to liis 
head, that is all till the nurse comes. She will be here before one 
o’clock. And in the meantime, you must just watch him carefully, 
and if anything occurs, tell me. Be very careful to tell me every- 
thing; for the slightest symptom is important.” 

“Yes, my lady; I’ll take great care, my lady.” The woman 
was overawed, yet excited by this unexpected visitor, who had 
turned the dull drama of the lodger’s illness into a great, imporhint, . 
and exciting conflict, conducted by the highest officials against dis- 
ease and death. 


268 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


“As I go home, I shall call at Dr. — ’s ’’—naming the great 
•doctor of the moment — “ who will meet the other gentleman here*, 
and after that, if they decide on ice-baths or any other active treat- 
ment — But there will be time to think of that. In the meantime, 
if anything important occurs, communicate with me at once, at 
Eaton Square.’’ 

“ Yes, my lady; I’ll not forget nothing. My ’usband will run in 
a moment to let your ladyship know.” 

“ That will be quite right. Keep him in the house, so that he may 
get anything that is wanted. ’ ’ Lady Markham gave her orders with 
the liberality of a woman who had never known any limit to the 
possibilities of command in this way. She went up to the bed and 
looked at the patient who lay all unconscious of inspection, continu- 
ing the hoarse talk, to which she had ceased to attend, through 
which she had carried on her conversation in complete calm. She 
touched his forehead for a moment with the back of her ungloved 
hand, and shook her head. “ The temperature is very high,” she 
said. There was a semi-professional calm in all she did. Now 
that he was under treatment, he could be considered dispassionately 
as a “ case.” When she turned round and saw Frances within the 
door, she held up her finger. “ Look at him, if you wish, for a mo- 
ment, poor fellow; but not a word,” she said. Frances, from the 
passion of anguish and wrong which had seized upon her, sunk 
altogether into a confused hush of semi-remorseful feeling. Her 
mother at least was occupied with nothing that was not for his good. 

“ I told you that I mistrusted Markham,” she said as they drove 
away. “ He did not mean any harm. But that is his life. And I 
think I told you that I was afraid, Constance — Oh, my dear, a 
mother has a great man^ hard offices to undertake in her life — to 
make up for things, which her children have done — en gaiete du 
mur, without thought.” 

“ Gaieie du mur — is that what you call it,” cried Frances," when 
you murder a man?” Her voice was choked with the passion that 
filled her. 

“ Frances! Murder. You are the last one in the world from 
whom I should have expected anything violent.” 

“ Oh,” cried the girl, flushed and wild, her eyes gleaming 
through an angry dew of pain, “ what word is there that is violent 
enough? He was happy and good, and there were — there might 
have been — people who could have loved him, and — and made him 
happy. When one comes in, one who had no business there, one 
who — and takes him from — the others, and makes a sport of him 
and a toy to amuse herself, and flings him broken away. It is worse 
than murder — if there is anything worse than murder,” she cried. 

Lady Markham could not have been more astonished if some pas- 
ser-by had presented a pistol at her head. “Frances!” she cried, 
and took the girl’s hot hands into her own, endeavoring to soothe 
her, “ you speak as if she meant to do it — as if she' had some inter- 
est in doing it. Frances, you must be just!” 

“ If I were just — if I had the power to be just, is there any pun- 
ishment which could be great enough? His life? But it is more 
than his life. It is misery and torture and wretchedness, to him 


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269 


first, and then to — to his mother — to — ’ ’ She ended as a woman, 
as a poor little girl, scarcely yet woman-grown, must — in an agony 
of tears. 

All that a tender mother and that a kind woman could do, with 
due regard to the important business in her hands, and a glance 
aside to see that the coachman did not mistake Sir Joseph’s much 
frequented door — Lady Markham did to quench this extraordinary 
passion, and bring back calm to Prances. She succeeded so far, 
that the girl, hurriedly drying her tears, retiring with shame and 
confusion into herself, recovered sufficient self-command to refrain 
from further betrayal of her feelings. In the midst of it all. though 
she was not unmoved by her mother’s tenderness, she had a kind 
of fierce perception of Lady Markham’s anxiety about Sir Joseph’s 
door, and her eagerness not to lose any time in conveying her mes- 
sage to him, which she did rapidly in her Own person, putting the 
footman aside, corrupting somehow by sweet words and looks the 
incorruptible functionary who guarded the great doctor’s door. It 
was all for poor Gaunt’s sake, and done with care for him, as anx- 
ious and urgent os if he had been her own son; and yet it was busi- 
ness too, which, had Frances been in a mood to see the humor of 
it, might have lighted the tension of her feelings. But she was in 
no mind for humor, a thing which passion has never any eyes for 
or cognizance of. “ That is all quite right. He will meet the 
other doctor this afternoon; and we may be now comfortable that 
he is in the best hands,” Lady Markham said with a sigh of satis- 
faction. She added: “1 suppose, of course, his parents will not 
hesitate about the expense?” in a faintly inquiring tone; but did 
not insist on any reply. Nor could Frances have given any reply. 
But amid the chaos of her mind, there came a consciousness of poor 
Mrs. Gaunt’s dismay, could- she have known. She would have 
watched her son night and day; and there was not*one of the little 
community at Bordighera — Mrs. Durant, with all her little pre- 
tenses; Tasie, in her young-ladyhood, who would not have shared the 
vigil. But the two expensive nurses, with every accessory that new- 
fangled science could think of — this would have frightened out of 
their senses the two poor parents, who would not ” hesitate about 
the expense,” or any expense that involved their son’s life. In this 
point, too, the different classes could not understand each other. 
The idea flew through the girl’s mind with a half-despairing con- 
sciousness that this, too, had something to do with the overwdielm- 
ing revolution in her own mind which carried everything before it. 
A man of her own species would have understood Constance, he 
would have known Markham’s reputation and w^ays. The pot of 
iron and the pot of clay could not travel together without damage 
to the weakest. This went vaguely thrqugh Frances’ mind in the 
middle of her excitement, and perhaps helped to calm her. It also 
stilled, if it did not calm her, to see that her mother was a little 
afraid of her in her new development. 

Lady Markham, when she returned to the brougham after her 
visit to Sir Joseph, manifestly avoided the subject. She w'as careful 
not to say anything of Markham or of Constance. Her manner w'as 
anxious, deprecatory, full of conciliation. She advised Frances, 
w'ith much tenderness, to go and rest a little when they got home. 


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A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


“ I fear you have been doing too much, my darling,” she cried, and 
followed her to her room with some potion in a glass. 

” I am quite well,” Frances said; ‘‘there is nothing the matter 
with me.” 

” But, I am sure, my dearest, that you are overdone.” Her anx- 
ious and conciliatory looks were of themselves a tonic to Frances^ 
and brought her back to herself. 

Markham, when he appeared in the evening, showed unusual 
feeling too. He was at the crisis, it seemed, of his own life, and 
perhaps other sentiments had therefore an easier hold upon him. 
He came in looking very downcast, with none of his usual banter 
in him. ” Yes, I know. I have heard all about it, bless you. What 
else, do you think, are those fellows talking about? Poor beggar. 
Who ever thought he’d have gone down like that in *so short a 
time? Now, mother, the only thing wanting is that you should say 
‘ I told you so.’ And Fan; no. Fan can do worse; she can tell me 
that she thought he was safe in my hands.” 

” It is not my way to say I told you so, Markham; but yet — ” 

‘‘You could do it, mammy, if you tried — that is well known. 
I’m rather glad he is ill, poor beggar; it stops the' business. But 
there are things to pay, that is the worst.” 

‘‘ Surely, if it is to a gentleman, he will forgive him,” cried 
Frances, ‘‘ when he knows — ” 

“ Forgive him! Poor Gaunt would rather die. It w’^ould be as; 
much as a man’s life is worth to offer to — forgive another man. But 
how should the child know? That’s the beauty ot society and the 
rules of honor. Fan. You can forgive a man many things, but not 
a shilling you’ve won from him. And how is he to mend, good 
life! with the thought of having to pay up in the end?” Markham 
repeated this despondent speech several times before he went gloom- 
ily away. ‘‘ I had rather die straight off, and make no fuss. But 
even then, he’d have to pay up, or somebody for him. If I had 
known what I know now, I’d have eaten him sooner than have 
taken him among those fellows, who have no mercy.” 

‘‘ Markham, if you would listen to me, you would give them up 
— you too.” 

‘‘ Oh, I ” — he said with his short laugh. ‘‘ They can’t do much 
harm to me.” 

‘‘ But you must change — in that as well as other things, if — ” 

‘‘ Ah, if,” he said, with a curious grimace; and took up his hat 
and went away. 

Thus, Frances said to herself, his momentary penitence and her 
mother’s pity melted away in consideration of themselves. They 
could not say a dozen words on any other subject, even such an 
urgent one as this, before their attention dropped, and they relapsed 
into the former question about themselves. And such a question 
■ — Markham’s marriage, which depended upon Nelly Winterbourn’s 
widowhood and the portion her rich husband left her. Markham 
was an English peer, the head of a family which had been known 
for centuries, which even had touched the history of England here 
and there; yet this was the ignoble way in which he was to take 
the most individual step of a man’s life. Her heart was full almost 
to bursting of these questions, which had been gradually awaken- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


271 


ing in her mind. Lady Markham when left alone, turned always 
to the consolation of employment — of those letters to write which 
filled up all the interstices of her other occupations. Perhaps she 
was specially glad to take refuge in this assumea duty, having no 
desire to enter again with her claughter into any discussion of the 
events of the day. Frances withdrew into a distant corner. She 
took a book with her, and did her best to read it, feeling that any- 
thing was better than to allow herself to think, to summon up again 
the sound of that hoarse broken voice running on in the feverish 
current of disturbed thought. Was he still talking, talking, God 
help him! of death and blood and the two colors, and her ribbon, 
and the misery which was all play? O, the misery, causeless, un- 
necessary, to no good purpose, that had come merely from this — 
that Constance had put herself in Frances’ place, that the pot of 
iron had thrust itself in the road of the pot of clay. But she must 
not think — she must not think, the girl sfdd to herself with feverish 
earnestness, and tried the book again. Finding it of no avail, how- 
ever, she put it down, and left her corner and came, in a moment 
of leisure between two letters, behind her mother’s chair. “ May I 
ask you a question, mamma?” 

” As many as you please, my dear;” but Lady Markham’s face 
bore a harassed look. ‘‘You know, Frances, there are some to 
■which there is no answer — which I can only ask with an aching 
heart, like yourself,” she said. 

“ This is a very simple one. It is — have I any money — of my 
own?” 

Lady Markham turned round on her chair and looked at her 
daughter. “Money,” she said. “Are you in need of anything? 
Do you want money, Frances? I shall never forgive myself, if you 
have felt yourself neglected.” 

“ It is not that. I mean — have I anything of myown?” 

After a little pause. ‘ ‘ There is a — small provision made for you 
by my marriage settlement, ’ ’ Lady Markham said. 

“ And — once more — could, oh, could I have it, mamma?” 

“ My dear child! you must be out of your senses. How could 
you have it at y'^*ur age — unless you were going to marry?” 

This suggestion Frances rejected with the contempt it merited. 
“ I shall never marry,” she said; “ and there never could be a time 
when it would be of so much importance to me to have it now. 
Oh, tell me, is there no way by which I could have it now?” 

“Sir Thomas is one of our trustees. Ask him. I do not think 
he will let you have it, Frances. But, perhaps, you could tell him 
what you want, if you will not have confidence in me. Money is 
just the thing that is least easy for me. I could give you almost any- 
thing else; but money I have not. What can you want money for, 
a, girl like you?” 

Frances hesitated before she replied: “I would rather not tell 
you,” she said; “ for very likely you would not approve; but it is 
nothing — wrong. ” 

“You are very honest, my dear. I do not suppose for a moment 
it is anything wrong. Ask Sir Thomas,” Lady Markham said with 
a smile. The smile had meaning in it, which to Frances was in- 


272 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


comprehensible. “ Sir Thomas — will refuse nothing he can in 
reason give — of that, I am sure.” 

Sir Thomas, when he came shortly afterward, said that he would 
not disturb Lady Markham, ” For I see you are busy, and 1 have 
something to say to Frances.” 

‘‘ Who has also something to say to you,” Lady Markham said 
with a benignant smile. Her heart gave a throb of satisfaction. It 
was all she could do to restrain herself, not to tell the dear friend to 
whom she was writing that there was every prospect of a most liapp^ 
establishment for dear Frances. And her joy was quite genuine 
and almost innocent, notwithstanding all she knew. 

” You have written to your father?” Sir Thomas said. “ My 
dear Frances, I have got the most hopeful letter from him, the first 
1 have had for years. He asks me if I know what state the Warren 
is in — if it is habitable? That looks like coming home, don’t you 
think? And it is years since he has written to me before.” 

Frances did not know what the Warren was; but she disliked 
showing her ignorance. And this idea was not so comforting to 
her as Sir Thomas expected. She said: “I do not think he will 
come,” with downcast eyes. 

But Sir Thomas was strong in his own w\ay of thinking. He was 
excited and pleased by the letter. He told her again and again how 
he had desired this — how happy it made him to think he was about 
to be successful at last. “ And just at the moment when all is 
likely to be arranged — when Markham — You have brought me 
luck, Frances. Now, tell me what it was you wanted from me?” 

Frances’ spirits had fallen lower and lower while his rose. Her 
mind ranged over the new possibilities with something like despair. 

It would be Constance, not she, who would have done it, if he 
came — Constance, who had taken her place from her — the love that 
ought to have been hers — her father — and who now, on her return, 
would resume her place with her mother too. Ah, what would 
Constance do? Would she do anything for him who lay yonder in 
the fever, for his father and his mother, poor old people! anything 
to make up for the harm she had done? Her heart burned in 
her agitated troubled bosom. “ It is nothing,” she said — “ nothing 
that you would do for me. I had a great wish — but I know you 
would not let me do it, neither you nor my mother.” 

“ Tell me what it is, and we shall see.” 

Frances felt her voice die away in her throat. “We went this 
morning to see — to see — ’ ’ 

“You mean poor Gaunt. It is a sad sight, and a sad story — too 
sad for a young creature like you to be mixed up in. Is it any- >*• 
tiling for him, that you w'ant me to do?” 

She looked at him through those hot gathering tears which inter- 
rupt the vision of women, and blind them when they most desire to 
see clearly. A sense of the folly of her hope, of the impossibility 
of making any one understand what was in her mind, overwhelmed 
her. " I can not, I can not,” she cried. “ Oh, I know you are very 
kind. I wanted my own money, if I have any. But I know you 
will not give it me, nor think it right, nor understand what I want, 
to do with it. ’ ’ 

“ Have you so little trust in me?” said Sir Thomas. “ I hope, if 


A HOUSE. DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


273 

you told me, I could understand, I can not give you your own 
money, Frances; but if it were for a good — no, I will not say that — 
for a sensible, for a wise purpose, you should have some of mine.” 

” Yours!” she cried almost with indignation. ” Oh, no; that is 
not what I mean. They are nothing — nothing to you.” She paused 
when she had said this, and grew very pale. ” I did not mean — 
Sir Thomas, please do not say anything to mamma.” 

He took her hand affectionately between his own. ” I do not 
half understand,” he said; ” but I will keep your secret, so far as 
I know it, my poor little girl.” 

Lady Markham at her writing-table, with her back turned, went 
on with her correspondence all the time in high satisfaction and 
pleasure, saying to herself that it would be far better than Nelly 
Winterbourn’s — that it would be the finest match of the year. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

It had seemed to Frances, as it appears naturally to all who have 
little experience, that a man who was so ill as Captain Gaunt must 
get better or get worse without any of the lingering suspense which 
accompanies a less violent complaint; but, naturally. Lady Mark- 
ham was wiser, and entertained no such delusions. When it had 
gone on for a week, it already seemed to Frances as if he had been 
ill for a year, as if there never had been any subject of interest in 
the world but the lingering course of the malady, which waxed 
from less to more, from days of quiet to hours of active delirium. 
The business-like nurses, always so cool and calm, with their pro- 
fessional reports, gave the foolish girl a chill to her heart, thinking, 
as she did, of the anxiety that w^ould have filled, not the house alone 
in w'hich he lay, but all the little community, had he been ill at 
home. Perhaps it was better for him that he was not ill at home, 
that the changes in his state were watched by clear eyes, not made 
dim by tears or oversharp by anxiety, but which took him very 
calmly, as a case interesting, no doubt, but only in a scientific sense. 

After a few diys. Lady Markham herself wrote to his mother a 
very kind letter, full of detail, describing everything which she had 
done, and how she had taken Captain Gaunt entirely into her own 
hands. “ I thought it better not to lose any time,” she said; ” and 
you may assure yourself that everything has been done for him 
that could have been done, had you yourself been here. I have 
acted exactly as I should have done for my own son in the circum- 
stances;” and she proceeded to explain the treatment, in a manner 
which was far too full of knowledge for poor Mrs. Gaunt’s under- 
standing, who could scarcely read the letter for tears The best 
' nurses, the best doctor, the most anxious care. Lady Markham ’sown 
personal supervision, so that nothing should be neglected. The 
two old parents held their little counsel over this letter with full 
hearts. It had been Mrs. Gaunt’s first intention to start at once, to 
get to her boy as fast as express trains could carry her; but then 
they began to look at each other, to falter forth broken words about 
expense. Two nurses, the best doctor in London — and then the 
mother’s rapid journey, the old general left alone. Hovr^vas she to 


' 274 : A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

do it, so anxious, so unaccustomed as she was? They decided, 
Avith many doubts and terrors, with great self-denial, and many a 
sick flutter of questionings as to which was best, to remain. Lady 
Markham had promised them news every day of tlieir boy, and a 
telegram at once if there was “ any change ” — those awful words, 
that slay the very soul. Even the poor mother decided that in these 
circumstances it would be “ self-indulgence ” to go; and from 
henceforward, the old people lived upon the post-hours, lived in 
awful anticipation of a telegram announcing a “ change.” Frances 
was their daily correspondent. She had gone to look at him, she 
always said, though the nurses would not permit her to stay. He 
was no worse. But till another week, there could be no change; 
then she would write that the critical day had passed — that there 
was still no change, and would not be again for a week; but that 
he was no worse. No worse — this was the poor fare upon which 
General Gaunt and his wife lived in their little Swiss pension, where 
it was so cheap. They gave up even their additional candle, and 
economized that poor little bit of expenditure; they gave up their 
wine; they made none of the little excursions which had been their 
delight. Even with all these economies, how were they to provide 
the expenses which were running on — the dear London lodgings, 
the nurses, the boundless outgoings, which it was understood they 
would not grudge. Grudge! No; not all the money in the world, 
if it could save their George. But where — where were they to get 
this money? Whence was it to come? 

This Frances knew, but no one else. And she, too, knew that the 
lodgings and the nurses and the doctors w^re so far from being all. 
The poor girl spent the days much as they did, in agonized ques- 
tions and considerations. If she could but get her money, her own 
money, whatever it was. Later, for her own use, wdiat would it 
matter? She could work, she could' take care of children, it did 
not matter what she did: but to save him, to save them. She had 
learned so much, however, about life and the world in which she 
lived, as to know that were her object known, it would be treated 
as the supremest folly. Wild ideas of Jews, of finding somebody 
who would lend her what she wanted, as young men do in novels, 
rose in her mind, and were dismissed, and returned again. But she 
was not a young man; she was only a girl, and knew not what to 
do, nor where to go. Not even the very alphabet of such knowl- 
edge was hers. While this was going on, she was taken, all ab- 
stracted as she was, into Society — to the solemn heavinesses of din- 
ner-parties; to dances even, in Avhich her gravity and self-absoip- 
tion were construed to mean very different things. Lady Markham 
had never said a word to any one of the idea which had sprung into 
her own mind full grown at sight of Sir Thomas holding in fatherly 
kindness her little girl’s hands. She had never said a word, oh, not 
a word. How such a wild and extraordinary rumor had got alx)ut, 
she could not imagine. But the ways of Society and its modes of 
information are inscrutable — a glance, a smile, are enough. And 
what so natural as this to bring a veil of gravity over even a d&yu- 
iante in her first season. Lucky little girl, some people said; poor 
little thing, some others. No wonder she was so serious; and her 
mother, that successful general — her mother, that triumphant match- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIITST ITSELF. 


275 - 


maker, radiant, in spite, people said, of the very uncomfortable state 
of affairs about Markham, and the fact that, in the absence of her 
executor, Nelly Winterbourn knew nothing as yet as to how she 
was “ left.” 

Thus the weeks went past in great suspense for all. Markham 
had recovered, it need scarcely be said, from his fit of remorse,', 
and he, perhaps, was the one to whom the uncertainties were a re- 
lief rather than an oppression. Mrs. Winterbourn had retired into 
the country, to wait the arrival of the all-important functionary^ 
who had possession of her husband’s will, and to pass decorously- 
the first profunditv of her mourning. Naturally, Society knew 
everything about Kelly: how, under the infliction of Sarah Winter- 
bourn’s society, she was quite as well as could be expected; how 
she was behaving herself beautifully in her retirement, seeing no- 
body, doing just what it was right to do. Nelly had always man- 
aged to retain the approval of Society, whatever she did. In the 
best circles, it was now a subject of indignant remark that Sarah 
Winterbourn should take it upon herself to keep watch like a 
dragon over the widow. For Nelly’s prevision was right, and the 
widow was what the men now called her, though women are not 
addicted to that form of nomenclature. But Sarah Winterbourn 
was ujiiversally condemned. Now that the poor girl had completed 
her time of bondage, and conducted herself so perfectly, why could 
not that dragon leave her alone? Markham made no remark upon 
the subject; but his mother, who understood him so well, believed 
he was glad that Sarah Winterbourn should be there, making all 
visits unseemly. Lady Markham thought he was glad of the pause 
altogether, of the impossibility of doing anything; and that he was 
allowed to go on without any disturbance in his usual way. She 
had herself made one visit to Nelly, and reported, when she came 
home, that notwithstanding the presence of Sarah, Nelly’s natural 
brightness was beginning to appear, and that soon she would be as 
espiegte as ever. That was Lady Markham’s view of the subject;, 
and there was no doubt that she spoke with perfect knowledge. 

It was very surprising, accordingly, to the ladies, when, some 
days after this. Lady Markham’s butler came upstairs to say that 
Mrs. Winterbourn was at the door, and had sent to inquire whether 
his mistress was at home and alone before coming upstairs. “Of 
course I am at home,” said Lady Markham; “lam always at home 
to Mrs. Winterbourn. But to no one else, remember, while she is 
here.” When the man went away with his message. Lady Mark- 
ham had a moment of hesitation. “You may stay,” she said to 
Frances, “ as you were present before and saw her in her trouble. 
But I wonder what has brought her to town? She did not intend 
to come to town till the end of the season. She must have some- 
thing to tell me. Oh, Nelly, how are you, dear?” she cried, going 
forward and taking the young widow in her arms. Nelly was in 
crape from top to toe. As she had always done what was right, 
what people expected from her, she continued to do so till the end. 
A little rim of white was under the edge of her close black bonnet 
with its long veil. Her cuffs were white and hem-stitched in the 
old-fashioned deep way. Nothing, in short, could be more deep 
than Nelly’s costume altogether. She was a very pattern for wid- 


276 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


ows : and it was very becoming, as that dress seldom fails to be. It 
would have been natural to expect in Nelly’s countenance some 
consciousness of this, as well as peihaps a something at the corners 
of her mouth which should show that, as Lady Markham said, she 
would soon be as espiegle as ever. But there was nothing of this in 
her face. She seemed to have stiffened with her crape. She 
suffered Lady Markham’s embrace rather than returned it. She did 
not take any notice of Frances. She walked across the room, sweep- 
ing with her long dress, with her long veil like an ensign of woe, 
and sat down with her back to the light. But for a minute or more 
she said nothing, and listened to Lady Markham’s questions with- 
out even a movement in reply. 

“ What is the matter, my dear? Is it something you have to tell 
me, or have you only got tired of the country?” Lady Markham 
said, with a look of alarm beginning to appear in her face. 

“ I am tired of the country,” said Mrs. Winterbourn; ” but I am 
also tired of everything else, so that does not matter much. Lady 
Markliam, I have come to tell you a great piece of news. My trustee 
and Mr. Winterbourn 's executor, who has been at the other end of 
the world, has come home.” 

“Yes, Nelly?” Lady Markham’s look of alarm grew more and 
more marked. “ You make me very anxious,’' she cried. “ I am 
sure something has happened that you did not foresee. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, nothing has happened — that I ought not to have foreseen. 
I always wondered why Sarah Winterbourn stuck to me so. The 
will has been opened and read, and I know how it all is now. I 
rushed to teil you, as you have been so kind.” 

“ Dear Nelly!’* Lady Markham said, not knowing, in the grow- 
ing perturbation of her mind, what else to say. 

“ Mr. Winterbourn has been very liberal to me. He has left me 
everything he can leave, away from his heir-at-law. Nothing that 
is entailed, of course; but there is not very much under the entail. 
They tell me I will be one of the richest women — a wealthy widow. ’ ’ 

“ My dear Nelly, I am so very glad; but I am not surprised. Mr. 
Winterbourn had a great sense of justice. He could not do less for 
you than that. ” 

“ But Lady Markham, you have not heard all.” It was not like 
Nelly Winterbourn to speak in such measured tones. There was 
not the faintest sign of the espiegle in her tone. Frances, roused by 
the astonished, alarmed look in her mother’s face, drew a little 
nearer almost involuntarily, notwithstanding her^ abstraction in 
anxieties of her own. 

“ Nelly, do you mind Frances being here?” 

“ Oh, I wish her to be here! It will do her good. If she is going 
to do — the same as I did, she ought to know.” She made a pause 
again; Lady Markham meanwhile growing pale with fright and 
panic, though she did not know what tnere could be to fear. 

“ There are some people who had begun to think that I -was not 
so well ‘left’ as was expected,” she said; “but they were mis- 
taken. l am very well ‘ leh.’ I am to have the house in Grosvenor 
Square, and the Knoll, and all the plate and carriages, and three 
parts or so of Mr. Winterbourn’s fortune — so long as I remain Mr. 
Winterbourn’s widow. He was, as you say, a just man.” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


277 


There was a pause. But for something in the air which tingled 
after Nelly’s voice had ceased, the listeners would scarcely have 
been conscious that anything more than ordinary had been said. 
Lady Markham said “ Nelly?” in a breathless interrogative tone — 
alarmed by that thrill in the air, rather than by the words, which 
were so simple in their sound. 

“ Oh, yes; he had a great sense of justice. So long as I remain 
Mrs. Winterbourn, I am to have all that. It was his, and I was 
his, and the property is to be kept together. Don’t you see. Lady 
Markham? Sarah knew it, and I might have known, had I thought. 
He had a great respect for the name of Winterbourn — not much, 
perhaps, for anything else.” She paused a little; then added: 
‘ ‘ That’s all. I wished you to know. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “is it possible — is it pos- 
sible? You — debatred from marrying, debarring from everything 
— at your age!” 

“Oh, I can do anything I please,” cried Nelly. “ I can go to 
the bad if I please. He does not say so long as I behave myself — 
only so long as 1 remain the Widow Winterbourn. I told you they 
w^ould all call me so. Well, they can do it! That’s what I am to 
be all my life — the Widow Winterbourn.” 

“Nelly — oh, Nelly,” cried Lady Markham, throwing her arms 
round her visitor. “ Oh, my poor child! And how can I tell — how 
am I to tell — ?” 

“ You can tell everybody, if you please,” said Mrs. Winterbourn, 
freeing herself from the clasping arms and rising up in her stiff 
crape. “He had a great sense of justice. He doesn’t say I’m to 
wear weeds all my life. I think 1 mean to come back to Grosvenor 
Square on Monday, and perhaps give a ball or two, and some din- 
ners, to celebrate — for I have come into my, fortune, don’t you see?” 
she said with an unmoved face. 

“ Hu.sh, dear — hush! You must not talk like that,” Lady Mark- 
ham said, holding her arm. 

“Why not? Justice is justice, whether for him or me. I w'as 
such a fool as to be wretched when he was dying, because — But it 
appears that there was no love lost— no love and no faith lost. He 
did not believe in me, any more than I believed in him. I out- 
witted him when he was living, and he outwits me wdien he is dead. 
Do you hear, Frances? that is how things go. If you do as I did, 
as I hear you are going to do— Oh, do it if you please; I will 
never interfere. But make up your mind to it— he will have his re- 
venge on you— or justice; it is all the same thing. Good-bye, Lady 
Markham. I hope you will countenance me at my first ball — for 
now I have come into my fortune, I mean to enjoy myself. Don’t 
you think these things are rather becoming? I mean to wear them 
out. They will make a sensation at my parties,” she said, and for 
the first time laughed aloud. 

“This is just the first wounded feeling,” said Lady Markham. 
“Oh, Nelly, you must not fly in the face of Society. You have 
always been so good. No, no; let us think it aver. Perhaps we 
can find a way out of it. There is bound to be a flaw somewhere.” 

“ Good-bye/’ said Nelly. “ I have not fixed on the day for my 
first At Home'; but the invitations will be out directly. Good-bye, 


278 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

Frances. You must come — and Sir Thomas. It will be a fine les- 
son for Sir Thomas. ” She walked across the room to the door^ 
and there stood for a moment, looking back. She looked taller;, 
almost grand in .still fury and despair with her immovable face. 
But as she stood there, a faint softening came to the marble. “ Tell 
Geoff — gently.” she said, and went away. They could hear the 
soft sweep of her black robes retiring down the stair, and then the 
door opening, the clang of the carriage. 

Lady Markham had dropped into a chair in her dismay, and sat 
with her hands clasped and her eyes wide open, listening to these 
sounds, as if they might throw some light on the situation. The 
consequences which mi^ht follow from Nelly’s freedom had been 
heavy on her heart; and it was possible that by and by the strange 
news might bring the usual comfort; but in the meantime, conster- 
nation overwhelmed her. “ As long as she remains his widow !”^ 
she said to herself in a tone of horror, as the tension of her nerves- 
yielded and the carriage drove away. “ And how am I to tell him 
— gently; how am I to tell him gently?” she cried. It was as if a- 
great catastrophe had overwhelmed the house. 

In an hour or so, ho’wever. Lady Markham recovered her energy, 
and began to think whether there might be any way out of it. ‘‘I 
will tell you,” she cried suddenly; “ there is your uncle Cavendish, 
Frances. He is a great lawyer. If any man can find a flaw in the 
will, he will do it. ’ ’ She rang the bell at once, and ordered the 
carriage. “ But, oh dear, ” she said, “I forgot. Lady Meliora is 
coming about Trotter’s Buildings, the place in Whitechapel. I can 
not go. Whatever may happen, I can not go to-day. But, my 
dear, you have never taken any part as yet; you need not stay for 
this meeting; and besides, you are a favorite in Portland Place; you 
are the best person to ^o. You can tell your uncle Cavendish — 
Stop; I will write a note,” Lady Markham cried. That was always 
the most satisfactory plan in every case. She sent her daughter to- 
get read}'- for going out; and she herself dashed off in two minutes 
four sheets of the clearest statement, a precis of the whole case. 
Mr, Cavendish, like most people, liked Lady Markham; he did not. 
share his wife’s prejudices; and Frances was a favorite. Surely, 
moved by these two influences combined, he would bestir himself 
and find a flaw in the will! 

In less than half an hour from the time of Mrs. Winterbourn’s 
departure Frances found herself alone in the brougham, going 1o- 
ward Portland Place. Her mind was not absorbed in Nelly Winter- 
bourn. She was not old enough, or sufficiently used to the ways of 
society to appreciate the tragedy in this case. Nelly’s horror at the 
moment of her husband’s death she had understood; but Nelly’s 
tragic solemnity now struck her as with a jarring note. Indeed, 
Frances had never learned to think of money as she ought. And 
yet, how anxious she was about money! How her thoughts returned 
as soon as she felt herself alone and free to pursue them, to the ques- 
tion which devoured her heart. It was a relief to her to be thus 
free, thus alone aryl silent, that she might think ot it. If she C'»uld 
but have driven on and on for a hundred miles or so, to think of it, 
to find a solution for her problem! But even a single mile was 
something; for before she had got through the long line of Picca:- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


279 

dilly; a sudden inspiration came to her mind. The one person in the 
world whom she could ask for help was the person whom she was 
on her way to see — her aunt Cavendish, who was rich, with whom 
she was a favorite, who was on the other side, ready to sympathize 
with all that belonged to the life of Bordighera, in opposition to 
Eaton Square. Nelly Winterbourn and her troubles fled like shad- 
ows from Frances’ mind. To be truly disinterested, to be always 
mindful of other people’s interests, it is well to have as few as pos- 
sible of one’s own. 

Mrs. Cavendish received her, as always, with a sort of combative 
tenderness, as if in competition for her favor with some powerful 
adversary unseen. There was in her a constant readiness to outbid 
that adversary, to offer more than she did, of wdiich Frances was 
usually uncomfortably conscious, but which to-day stimulated her 
like a cordial. “ I suppose you are being taken to all sorts of 
places?” she said. “ I wish I liad not given up society so much; 
but when the season is over, and the fine people are all in the coun- 
try, then you will see that we have not forgotten you. Has Sir 
Thomas come with you, Frances? I supposed, perhaps, you had 
come to tell me — ” 

“ Sir Thomas?” Frances said, with much surprise; but she was 
too much occupied with concerns more interesting to ask what her 
a,unt could mean. “ Oh, Aunt Chailotte,” she said, “ I have come 
to speak to you of something I am very, very much interested 
about ” In all sincerity, she had forgotten the original scope of 
her mission, and only remembered her own anxiety. And then she 
told her story — how Captain Gaunt, the son of her old friend, the 
youngest, the one that w^as best beloved, had come to town — how he 
had made friends who were not — nice — who made him play and 
lose money — though he had no money. 

“ Of course, my dear, I know — Lord Markham and his set.” 

At this Frances colored high. “ It was not Markham. Markham 
has found out for me. It was some — fellows who had no mercy,” * 
he said. 

” Oh, ^es; they are all the same set. I am very sorry that an in- 
nocent girl like you should be in any way mixed up with such peo- 
ple. Whether Lord Markham plucks the pigeon himself, or gets 
some of his friends to do it — ’’ 

“Aunt Charlotte, now you take away my last oope; for Markham 
Is my brother; and I will never, never ask any one to help me who 
speaks so of my brother — he is always so kind, so kind to me.” 

“ I don’t see what opportunity he has ever had to be kind to 
you,” said Mrs. Cavendish. 

But Frances in her disappointment would not listen. She turned 
away her head, to get rid, so far as was possible, of the blinding 
tears — those tears which would come in spite of her, notwithstand- ' 
ing all the efforts she could make. “ I had a little hope in you,” 
Frances said; “ but now I have none, none. My mother sees him 
every day; if he lives she will have saved his life. But I can not 
ask her for what I want. I can not ask her for more — she has done 
so much. And now, you make it impossible for me to ask you!” 

If Frances had studied how to move her aunt best she could not 
iave hit upon a more effectual way. “ My dear child,” cried Mrs. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


280 

Cavendish, hurrying to her, drawing her into her arras, ‘ what is 
it, what is it that moves you so much? Of whom are you speaking? 
His life? Whose life is in danger? And what is it you want? If 
you think I, your father’s only sister, will do less for you than Lady 
Markliam does— Tell me, my dear, tell me what is it you want?” 

Then Frances continued her story. How young Gaunt was ill of 
a brain- fever, and raved about his losses, and the black and red, 
and of his mother in mourning (with an additional ache in her 
heart, Frances suppressed all mention of Constance), and how slie 
understood, though nobody else did, that the Gaunts were not rich, 
that even the illness itself would tax all their resources, and that the 
money, the debts to pay, would ruin them, and break their hearts. 
” I don’t say he has not been wrong. Aunt Charlotte — oh, I suppose 
he has been very wrong — but there he is lying; and oh, how pitiful 
it is to hear him! and the old general, who was so proud of him: 
and Mrs. Gaunt, dear Mrs. Gaunt, who always was so good to me!’" 

‘ ‘ Frances, my child — I am not a hard-hearted woman, though 
you seem to think so — I can understand all that. I am very, very'' 
sorry for the poor mother; and for the young man even, who has 
been led astray; but I don’t see what you can do.” 

” What!” cried Frances, her eyes flashing through her tears — “ for 
their son, who is the same as a brother — for them, whom I have al- 
ways known, who have helped to bring me up? Oh, you don’t 
knovv how people live where there are only a few of them, where 
there is no society, if you say that. If he had been ill there, at 
home, we should all have nursed him, every one. We should have 
thought of nothing else. We should have cooked for him, or gone 
errands, or done anything. Perhaps, those w'omen are better; I 
don't know. But to tell me that you don’t know what I could do. 
Oh,” cried the girl, springing to her feet, throwing up her hands, 
“ if I had the money, if I had only the money, I know what I 
would do!” 

Mrs. Cavendish was a woman who did not spend money, who had 
everything she wanted, who thought little of what wealth could 
procure; but she was the Quixote in her heart which so many 
women are where great things are in question, though not in small. 
“ Money?” with a faint quaver of alarm in her voice. ” My dear, 
if it was anything that was feasible, anything that was right, and 
you wanted il very much — the money might be found,” she said. 
The position, however, was too strange to b^e mastered in a moment, 
and difficulties rose as she spoke. ” A young man. People might 
suppose — And then Sir Thomas — what would Sir Thomas think?’" 

” That is why I came to you; for he will not give me my owa 
money — if I have any money. Aunt Charlotte, if you will give it 
me now, I will pay you back as soon as I am of age. Oh, I don’t 
want to take it from you — I want — If everything could be paid 
before he is betl er, before he knows — if we could hide it, so that the 
general and his mother should never find out. That would be worst 
of all, if they were to find out— it would break their hearts. Oh, 
Aunt Charlotte, she thinks there is no one like him. She loves him 
so; more than — more than any one here — and to find out all that 
would break her heart.” 

Mrs. Cavendish rose, too, and stood up with her face turned to- 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


381 


ward the door. “ I can’t tell what is the matter with me,” she said; 

I can scarcely hear what you are saying. I wonder if I am going 
to be ill, or what it is. I thought just then I heard a voice. Surely 
there is some one at the door. I am sure I heard a voice — Oh, a 
voice you ought to know, if it was true. Frances — I will think of 
all that after — just now — He must be dead, or else he is here!” 

Frances, who thought of no possibility of death save to one, 
caught her aunt’s arm with a cry. The great house was very still — 
soft carpets everywhere — the distant sound of a closing door scarcely 
penetrating from below. Yet there was something, that faint human 
stir which is more subtle than sound. They stood and waited, the 
elder woman penetrated by sudden excitement and alarm, she could 
not tell why; the girl indifferent, yet ready for any wonder in the 
susceptibility of her anxious state. As they stood, not knowing 
what they expected, the door opened slowly, and there suddenly 
stood in the opening, like two people in a dream — Constance, smiling, 
drawing after her a taller figure. Frances, with a start of amaze- 
ment, threw from her her aunt’s arm which she held, and calling 
“ Father!” threw herself into Waring’s arms. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

‘ ‘ I FOUND him in the mood; so I thought it best to strike while 
the iron was hot, ” Constance said. She had settled down languidly in 
a favorite corner, as if she had never been away. She had looked 
for the footstool where she knew it was to be found, and arranged 
the cushion as she liked it. Frances had never made herself so 
much at home as Constance did at once. She looked on with a 
calm amusement while her aunt poured out her delight, her wonder, 
her satisfaction in Waring’s ears. She did not budge herself from 
her comfortable place; but she said to Frances in an under-tone : 
“ Don’t let her go on too long. She will bore him, you know; and 
then he will repent. And I don’t want him to repent.” 

As for Frances, she saw the ground cut away entirely from under 
her feet, and stood sick and giddy after the first pleasure of seeing 
her father was over, feeling her hopes all tumble about her. Mrs. 
Cavendish, who had been so near yielding, so much disposed to 
give her the help she wanted, had forgotten her petition and her 
altogether in the unexpected delight of seeing her brother. And 
here was Constance, the sight of whom perhaps might call the sick 
man out of his fever, who jnight restore life and everything, even 
happiness to him, if she would. But would she? Frances asked 
herself. Most likely, she would do nothing, and there would be no 
longer any room left for Frances, who was ready to do all. She 
would have been more than mortal if she had not looked with a 
certain bitterness at this new and wonderful aspect of affairs. 

“I saw mamma’s brougham at the door,” Constance said. 

‘ There you must take me. Of course, this was the place for papa 
to come; but I must go. It would never do to let mamma think 
me devoid of feeling. How is she, and Markham — and everybody? 
1 had scarcely had any news for three months. We met Algy Mun- 
castle on the boat, and he told us something — a great deal about 
Xelly Wiuterbourn — the widow, as they call her — and about you.” 


282 ^ HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 

‘ There could be nothing to say of me.” 

“ Oh, but there was, though. "What a sly little thing you arei, 
never to say a word! Sir Thomas. Ah, you see, I know. And I 
congratulate you with all my heart. Fan. He is rolling in money,, 
and such a good kind old man. Why, he was a lover of mamma’s 
dans les temps. It is delightful to think of you consoling him. And 
you will be as rich as a little princess, and mamina to see that all 
the settlements are right.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Frances said, abruptly. She 
was so preoccupied and so impatient that she would not even allpw 
herself to understand. She went to where her father sat talking to 
his sister, and stood behind his chair, putting her hand upon his 
arm. He did not perhaps care for her very much. He had Aunt 
Charlotte to think of, from whom he had been separated so long; 
and Constance, no doubt, had made him her own, too, as she had 
made everybody else her own; but still he was all tliat Frances had,, 
the nearest, the one that belonged to her most. To touch him like 
this gave her a little consolation. And he turned round and srrjled 
at her, and put his hand upon hers. This was a little comfort, but 
it did not last long. It was time she should return to her mother; 
and Constance was anxious to go, notwithstanding her fear that her 
father would be bored. ” I must go and see my mother, you know, 
papa. It would be very disrespectful not to go. And you won’t 
want me, now you have got Aunt Charlotte. Frances is going to 
drive me home.” She said this as if it was her sister’s desire to go; 
but as a matter of fact, she had taken the command at once. Fran- 
ces, reluctant beyond measure to return to the house, in which she- 
felt she would no longer be wanted — which was a perverse imagina- 
tion, born of her unhappiness — wretched to lose the prospect of 
help, which she had been beginning to let herself believe in, was 
yet too shy and too miserable to make any resistance. She remem- 
bered her mother’s note for Mr. Cavendish before she went away, 
and she made one last appeal to her aunt. ” You will not forget 
what we were talking about. Aunt Charlotte?” 

” Dear me,” said Mrs. Cavendish, putting up her hand to her 
head. ” What was it, Frances? I have such a poor memory; and 
your father’s coming, and all this unexpected happiness, have 
driven everything else away.” 

Frances went down-stairs with a heart so heavy that it seemed to 
lie dead in her breast. Was there no help for her, then? No help 
for him, the victim of Constance and of Markham, no way of soften- 
ing calamity to the old people? Her temper rose as her hopes fell. 
All so rich, so abounding, but no one who would spare anything 
out of his superfluity, to help the ruined and heart-broken. Oh, yes, 
she said to herself in not unnatural bitterness, the hospitals, yes; 
and Trotter’s Buildings in Whitechapel. But for the people to 
whom they were bound so much more closely, the man who had 
sat at their tables, whom they had received and made miserable, 
nothing! oh, nothing! not a finger held out to save him. The little 
countenance that had been like a summer day, so innocent and 
fresh and candid, was clouded over. Pride prevented— -pride, more 
effectual than any other defense — the outburst which in other cir- 
cumstances would have relieved her heart. She sat in her corner,. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


383 


withdrawn as far as possible from Constance, listening dully, mak- 
ing little response. After several questions, her sister turned upon 
her with a surprise which was natural, too. 

“ What is the matter?” she said. “ You don’t talk as you used 
to do. Is it town that has spoiled you? Do you think I will inter- 
fere with you? Oh, you need not be at all afraid. I have enough 
of my own without meddling with you.” 

“ I don’t know what I have that you could interfere with,” said 
Frances. ” Nothing here.” 

” Do you want to quarrel with me?” Constance said. 

“ It is of no use to quarrel; there is nothing to quarrel about. I 
might have thought 3 ou would interfere when you came first. I 
had people there who seemed to belong to me. But here — 3^011 have 
the first place. Why should I quarrel? You are only coming back 
t0 3murown.” 

” Fan, for goodne&s’ sake, don’t speak in that dreadful tone. 
What have I done? If 3'ou think papa likes me best, you are mis- 
taken. And as for the mother don’t 3'ou know her yet? Don’t 
you know that she is nice to everybody, and cares neither for you 
nor me?” 

“No,” cried Frances, raising herself bolt upright; “I don’t 
know that! How dare you sa3’’ it, you who are her cliild? Perhaps 
you think no one cares — not one, though 3mu have made an end of 
my home. Did you hear about George Gaunt, wdiat you have done 
to him? He is lying in a brain-fever, raving, raving, talking for- 
ever, day and night; and if he dies, Markham and 3mu will have 
killed him — you and Markham; for 3^11 have been the worst. It 
will be murder, and you should be killed for it!” the girl cried. Her 
eyes blazed upon her sister in the close inclosure of the little brough- 
am. “ You thought he did not care, either, perhaps.” 

“Fan! Good heavens! I think 3mu must be going out of 3^111* 
senses,” Constance cried. 

Frances was not able to say any more. She was stifled by the 
commotion of her feelings, her heart beating so wildly in her breast, 
her emotion reaching the intolerable. The brougham stopped, and 
she sprung out and ran into the house, hurrying upstairs to her own 
room. Constance, more surprised and disconcerted than she could 
say, came in with an air of great composure, saying a word in pass- 
ing to the astonished servant at the door. She was quite amiable 
always to the people about her. She walked upstairs, remarking, 
as she passed, a pair of new vases with palms in them, which dec- 
orated the staircase, and which she approved. She opened the 
drawing-room door in her pretty, languid- stately, always leisurely 
way 

“ How are you, mamma? Frances has run upstairs; but here am 
I, just come back,” she said. 

Lady Markham rose from her seat with a little scream of astonish- 
ment. “ Constance! It is not possible. Who would have dreamed 
of seeing you!” she cried 

“Oh, yes, it is quite possible,” said Constance when they had 
kissed, with a prolonged encounter of lips and cheeks. “ Surely, 
you did not think I could keep very long away?” 


284 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 

“ My darling, did you get homesick, or mammy-sick, as Mark- 
ham says, after all your philosophy?” 

“ I am so glad to see you, mamma, and looking so well. No, 
not homesick, precisely, dear mother, but penetrated with the folly 
of staying there, where nothing was ever doing, when I might have 
been in the center of everything, which is saying much the same 
thing, though in different words.” 

‘‘In very different words,” said Lady Markham, resuming her 
seat with a smile. “ I see you have not changed at all, Con, Will 
you have any tea? And did you leave — your home there — with as 
little ceremony as you left me?” 

‘‘ May I help myself, mamma? Don’t you trouble. It is very 
nice to see your pretty china, instead of Frances’ old bizarre cups, 
which were much too good for me. Oh, I did not leave my — home. 
I — brought it back with me.’' 

‘‘You brought — ” 

” My father with me, mamma.” 

‘‘Oh!” Lady Markham said. She was too much astonished to 
say more. 

‘* Perhaps it was because he got very tired of me, and thought 
there was no other way of getting rid of me; perhaps because he 
was tired of it himself. He came at last like a lamb. I did not 
really believe it till we were on the boat, and Algy Muncastle turned 
up, and I introduced him to my father. You should have seen how 
he stared.” 

” Oh!” said Lady Markham again; and then she added, faintly: 
‘‘ Is — is he here?” 

‘‘You mean papa? I left him at Aunt Charlotte’s. In the cir- 
cumstances, that seemed the best thing to do.” 

Lady Markham leaned back in her chair; she had become very 
pale. One shock after another had reduced her strength. She 
closed her eyes while Constance very comfortably sipped her tea.. 
It was not possible that she could have dreamed it or imagined it, 
when, on opening her eyes again, she saw Constance sitting by the 
tea-table with the plate of bread and butter nefore her. ‘‘ I have 
really,” she explained seriously, ‘‘ eaten nothing to-day.” 

Frances came down some time after, having bathed her eyes and 
smoothed her hair. It was always smooth like satin, shining in the 
light. She came in, in her unobtrusive way, ashamed of herself 
for her outburst of temper, and determined to be “ good,” whatever 
might happen. She was surprised that there was no conversation 
going on. Constance sat in a chair which Frances at once recog- 
nized as having been hers from the beginning of time, wondering: 
ar her own audacity in having sat in it, when she did not know. 
Lady Markham was still leaning back in her chair. ‘‘ Oh, it’s noth- 
ing — only a little giddiness. So many strange things are happen- 
ing. Did you give jmur uncle Cavendish my note? I suppose 
Frances told you, Con, how we have been upset to-day?” 

‘‘ Upset,” said Constance over her bread and butter. ” I should 
have thought you would have been immensely pleased. It is about 
Sir Thomas, I suppose?” 

‘‘About Sir Thomas? Is there any news about Sir Thonu.s?”^ 
said Lady Markham, with an elaborately . innocent look. ” If so, it 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 285 

has not been yet confided to me. ” And then she proceeded^ to tell 
to her daughter the story of Nelly Winterbourn. 

‘ ‘ I should have thought that would all have been set right in the 
settlements,” Constance said. 

“ So it ought. But she had no one to see to the settlements — no 
one with a real interest in it; and it was such a magnificent match.” 

‘‘No better than Sir Thomas, mamma.” 

” Ah, Sir Thomas. Is there really a story about Sir Thomas? I 
can only say, if it is so, that he hasmever confided it to me.” 

‘ ‘ I hope no mistake will be made about the settlements in that 
case. And what do you suppose Markham will do?” 

‘‘ What can he do? He will do nothing, Con. You know, after 
all, that is the rok that suits him best. Even if all had been well, 
unless Nelly had asked him herself — ” 

‘‘ Do you think she would have minded, after all this time? But 
I suppose there’s an end of Nelly now,” Constance said, regietfully, 

‘‘ I am afraid so,” Lady Markham replied. And then recovering, 
she began to tell her daughter the news, all the news of this one and 
the other, which Frances had never been able to understand, which 
Constance entered into as one to the manner born. They left the 
subject of Nelly Winterbourn, and not a word was said of young 
Gaunt and his fever; but apart from these subjects, everything that 
had happened since Constance left England was discussed between 
them. They talked and smiled and rippled over into laughter, and 
passed in review the thousand friends, whose little follies and freaks 
both knew, and skimmed across the surface of tragedies with a 
consciousness, that gave piquancy to the amusement, of the terrible 
depths beneath. Frances, keeping behind, not willing to show her 
troubled countenance, from which the traces of tears were not easily 
effaced, listened to this light talk with a wonder which almost 
reached the height of awe. Her mother at least must have many 
grave matters in her mind; and even on Constance, the conscious- 
ness of having stirred up all the quiescent evils in the family history, 
of her father in England, of the meeting which must take place be- 
tween the husband and wife so long parted, all by her influence, 
must have a certain weight. But there they sat and talked and 
laughed and shot their little shafts of wit. Frances, at last feeling 
her heart ache too much for further repression, and that the pleasant 
interchange between her mother and sister exasperated instead of 
lightened her buiHened soul, left them, and sought refuge in her 
room, where presently she heard their voices again as they came 
upstairs to dress. Constance’s boxes had in the meantime arrived 
from the railway, and the conversation was very animated upon 
fashions and new adaptations and what to wear. Then the door of 
Constance’s room was closed, and Lady Markham came tapping at 
that of Frances. She took the girl into her arms. ‘‘Now,” she 
said, “ my dream is going to be realise 1, and I shall have my two 
girls, one on each side of me. My little Frances, are you not glad?’ 

“ Mother,” the girl said, faltering, and stopped, not able to say 
any more. 

Lady Markham kissed her tenderly, and smiled, as if she were 
content. Was she content? Was the happiness, now she had it, 
as great as she said? Was she able to be light-hearted with all these 


^86 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIIirST ITSELF. 


complif'ations round her? But to these questions, who could give 
any answer? Presently she went to dress, shutting the door, and 
between her two girls, retired so many hundred, so many thousand 
miles away, who could tell? into herself. 

In the evening there was considerable stir and commotion in the 
house. Markham, warned by one of his mother’s notes, came to 
dinner full of affectionate pleasure in Con’s return, and cheerful 
inquiries for her. “ As yet, you have lost nothing. Con. As yet, 
nobody has got w^ell into the swim. As to how the mammy will 
•feai with two daughters to take about, that is a mystery. If we had 
known we’d have shut up little Fan in the nursery for a year more.” 

“It is I that should be sent to the nursery,” said Constance. 
"‘Three months is a long time. Algy Muncastle thought- 1 was 
dead and buried. He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.” 

” A girl might just as well be dead and buried as let half the 
season slip over and never appear. 

” Unless she 'were a widow,” said Con. 

” Ah! unless she were a widow, as you say. That changes the 
face of affairs,” Markham made a slight involuntary retreat, when 
he received that blow, but no one mentioned the name of Nelly 
Winterbourn. It was much too serious to be taken any notice of 
now. In the brightness of Lady Markham’s drawing-room, with 
all its softened lights, grave subjects wnre only discussed Ute-d-tete. 
When the company was more than two everything took a sj'iortive 
turn. Of the two visitors, however, who came in later, one was not 
at all disposed to follow this rule. Sir Thomas said but little to 
Constance though her arrival was part of the news wiiich had 
brought him heie; but he held Lady Markham’s hand with an 
anxious look into her eyes, and as soon as he could drew^ Frances 
aside to the distant corner in which she was fond of placing herself. 
■” Do you know he has come?” he cried. 

‘‘ I have seen papa. Sir Thomas, if that is what you mean.” 

” What else could I mean?” said Sir Thomas. ” You know how 
I have tried for this. What did he say? I want to know wiiat dis 
position he is in. And wiiat disposition is she in? Frances, you and 
I have a great deal to do. We have the ball at our feet. There is 
nobody acting in both their interests but you and I.” 

There was something in Frances’ eyes and in her look of mute 
endurance which startled him eren in the midst of his enthusiasm. 

What is the matter?” he said. “I have not forgotten our bar- 
gain. I will do much for you, if you will work for me. And you 
want something. Come, tell me what it is?” 

She gave him a look of reproach. Had he, too, forgotten the sick 
and miserable, the sufferer, of wiiom no one thought? “ Sir 
Thomas,” she said, “Constance has money; she has stopped at 
Paris to buy dresses. Oh, give me wiiat is my share. ” 

‘ ‘ I remember now, ’ ’ he saia. 

“ Then you know the only thing that any one can do for me. 
Oh, Sir Thomas, if you could but give it me now'. ’ ’ 

“ Shall 1 speak to your father?” he asked. 

These words Markham heard by chance, as he passed them to 
fetch something his mother w'anted*. He returned to where she sat 
with a curious look in his little twinkling eyes. ‘ ‘ What is Sir 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 2ST 

Thomas after? Do you know what that silly story is about? Thejr 
say that old fellow is after Lady Markham’s daughter. It had 
better be put a stop to, mother. I won’t have anything go amiss 
with little Fan,” 

“ Go amissl with Sir Thomas. Tliere is nobody he might not 
many, Markham — not that anything has ever been said.*^’ 

‘‘Let him have anybody he pleases except little Fan. I won’t 
have anything happen to Fan. She is not one that would stand it,, 
like the rest of us. We are old stagers; we are trained for the 
stake; we know how to grin and bear it. But that little thing, she 
has never been brought up to it, and it would kill her. I won’t 
have anything go wrong with little Fan.” 

■‘ There is nothing going wrong with Frances. You are not talk- 
ing with your usual sense, Markham. If that was coming Frances 
would be a lucky girl.” 

Markham looked at her with his eyes all pursed up, nearly dis- 
appearing in the puckers round them. “Mother,” he said, “we 
know a girl who was a very lucky girl, you and I. Remember 
Nelly Winterbourn.” 

It gave Lady Markham a shock to hear Nelly’s name. “ Oh„ 
Markham, the less we say of her the better,” she cried. 

There was another arrival 'while they talked — Claude Ramsay, 
with the flower in his coat a little rubbed by the great coat which 
he had taken off in the hall, though it was now June. “ I heard 
you had come back,” he said, dropping languidly into a chair by 
Constance. “ I thought I would come and see if it was true.” 

“You see it is quite true.” 

“Yes; and you are looking as well as possible. Everything 
seems to agree with you. Do you know I was very nearly going out 
to that little place in the Riviera? I got all the remeUjnemenU; but 
then I heard that it got hot and the people went away.” 

“You ought to have come. Don’t you know it is at the back of the- 
east wind, and there are no draughts there?” 

“ What an ideal place!” said Claude. “ I shall certainly go next 
winter, if you are going to be there.” 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

Frances slept very little all night; her mind was jarred and sore 
almost at every point. The day, with all its strange experiences, 
and still more strange suggestions, had left her in a giddy round of 
the unreal, in which there seemed no ground to stand upon. Nelly 
Winterbourn was the first prodigy in that round of wonders. Why,, 
with that immovable tragic face, had she intimated to Lady Mark- 
ham the ten ire upon which she held her fortune? Why had it 
been received as something conclusive on all sides? There is an 
end of Nelly. But why. And then came her mission to her aunt, 
the impression that had been made on her mind — the hope that had 
dawned on Frances; and then the event which swept both hope and 
impression away, and the bitter end that seemed to come to every- 
thing in the reappearance of Constance. Was it that she was jeai- 


S88 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


ous of Constance? Frances asked herself in the silence of the nighty 
with noiseless bitter tears. The throbbing of her heart was all 
pain; life had become pain, and nothing more. Was it that she was 
jealous of her sister? It seemed to Frances that her heart 
w^as being wrung, pressed till the life came out of it in gi’eat drops 
under some giant’s hands. She said to herself. No, no. It was 
only that Constance came in her careless grace, and the place was 
hers, wherever she came; and all Frances had done, or was tiyii^ 
to do, came to nought. Was that jealous}''? She lay awake throng 
the long hours of the summer night, seeing the early dawn groV 
blue, and then warm and lighten into the light of day. And then 
all the elements of chaos round her, which whirled and whirled and 
left no honest fooling, came to a pause and disappeared, and one 
thing real, one fact remained — George Gaunt in his fever, lying rapt 
from all common life, taking no note of night or day. Perhaps the 
tide might be turning now for death or life, for this was once more 
the day that might be the crisis. The other matters blended into a 
phantasmagoria, of which Frances could not tell which part wffs 
false and which true, or if anything was true; but here was reality 
beyond dispute. She thought of the pale light stealing into his 
room, blinding the ineffectual candles; of his weary head on the 
pillow growing visible; of the long endless watch; and far away 
among the mountains, of the old people waiting and praying, and 
wondering what news the morning would bring them. This thought 
stung Frances into a keen life and energy, and took from her all re- 
flection upon matters so abstract as that question whether or not she 
was jealous of Constance. What did it matter? so long as he could 
be brought back from the gates of death and the edge of the grave, 
so long as the father and mother could be saved from that awful 
and murderous blow. She got up hastily long before any one was 
stirring. There are moments when all our ineffectual thinkings, 
and even futile efforts, end in a sudden determination tnat the 
thing must be done, and revelations of how to do it. She got up 
with a little tremor upon her, such as a great inventor might have 
when he saw at last his way clearly, or a poet when lie has caught 
the spark of celestial fire. Is there any machine that was ever in • 
vented, or even any power so divine as the right way to save a life 
and deliver a soul? Frances’ little frame was all tingling, but it 
made her mind clear and firm. She asked herself bow she could 
have thought of any other but this way. 

It was very early in the morning when she set out. If it had not 
been London, in which no dew falls, the paths would have been wet 
with dew; even in London there was a magical something in the air 
wdiich breathed of the morning, and which not all the housemaids* 
brooms and tradesmen’s carts in the world could dispel. Frances 
walked along in the silence, along the long silent line of the Park, 
where there was nobody save a little early school mistress, or per- 
haps a belated man about town, surprised by the mornins:. with red 
eyes and furtive looks, in the overcoat which hid his evening clothes, 
hurrying home, to break the breadth of the sunshine, the soft morn- 
ing light, which was neither too warm nor dazzling, but warmed 
gently, sweetly to the heart. Her trouble had departed from her 
in the resolution she had taken. She was very grave, not knowing 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


m 

whether death or life, sorrow or hope, might be in the air, but com- 
posed, because, whatever it was, it must now come, all l^ing done 
that man could do. She did not hasten, but walked slowly, low- 
ing how early she was, how astonished her aunt’s servants would 
be to see her, unattended walking up to the door. “ I will arise 
and go to my father,” Wherever these words can be said there is 
a peace in them, a sense of safety at least. There are, alas, many 
cases in which, with human fathers, they can not be said; but 
Waring, whatever his faults might be, had not forfeited his child’s 
confidence, and he would understand. To all human aches and 
miseries, to be understood is the one comfort above all others. 
Those to whom she had appealed before had been sorry; they had 
been astonished; they had gazed at her with troubled eyes. But 
her father would understand. This was the chief thing and the 
best. She went along under the trees, which were still fresh and 
green, through the scenes which, a little while later, would be astir 
with all the movements, the comedies, the tragedies, the confusions 
and complications of life. But now they lay like a part of the fair 
silent country, like the paths in a wood, like the glades in a park, 
all silent and mute, birds in the branches, dew upon the grass — a 
place where Town had abdicated, where Nature reigned. 

Waring was an early riser, accustomed to the early hours of a 
primitive people. It was a curious experience to him to come down 
through a closed-up and silent house, where the sunshine came in 
between the chinks of the shutters, and all was as it had been in the 
confusion of the night. A frightened maid-servant came before 
him to open the study, which his brother-in-law Cavendish had oc- 
cupied till a late hour. Traces of the lawyer’s vigil were still ao- 
parent enough — his waste-paper basket full of fragments; the little 
tray standing in the comer which, even when holding nothing more 
than soda-water and claret, suggests dissipation in the morning. 
Waring was jarred by all this unpreparedness. He thought with a 
sigh of the b^k-room in the Palazzo all open to the sweet morning 
air. before the sun had come round that way; and when he stepped 
out upon the little iron balcony attached to the window and looked 
out upon other backs of houses, all crowding round, the recollection 
of the blue seas, the waving palms, the great peaks, all carved 
against the brilliant sky, made him turn back in disgust. The mean 
I^ndon walls of yellow brick, the narrow houses, the little windows, 
all blinded with white blinds and curtains, so near that he could 
almost touch them — ” However, it will not be like this at the War- 
ren,” he said to himself. He was no longer in the mood in which 
he had left Bordighera; but yet, having left, he was ready to ac- 
knowledge that Bordighera was impossible. It had continued from 
year to year — it might have continued forever, with Frances igno- 
rant of all that had gone before; but the thread of life once broken 
could be knitted again no more. He acknowledged this to himself; 
and then he found that in acknowledging it he had brought himself 
face to face with all the gravest problems of his life. He had held 
them at arm’s-length for years; but now they had to be decided, 
and there was no alternative. He must meet them; he must look 
them in the face. And hers, too, he must look in the face. Life 
once more had come to a point at which neither habit nor the past 
10 


290 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


could help him. All over again, as if he were a boy coming of age, 
it would have to be decided what it should be. 

Waring was not at all surprised by the appearance of Frances 
fresh with the morning air about her. It seemed quite natural to 
him. He had forgotten all about the London streets, and how far 
it was from one point to another. He thought she had gained much 
in her short absence from him; perhaps in learning how to act for 
herself, to think for herself, which she had acquired since she left 
him; for he was entirely unaware, and even quite incapable of being 
instructed, that Frances had lived her little life as far apart from 
him, and been as independent of him while sitting by his side at 
Bordighera, as she could have been at the other end of the world. 
But he was impressed by the steady light of resolution, the cause of 
which was as yet unknown to him, which was shining in her eyes. 
She told him her story at once, without the little explanations that 
had been necessary to the others. When she said George Gaunt he 
knew all that there was to say. The only thing that it was expe- 
dient to conceal was Markham’s part in the catastrophe, which was, 
after all, not at all clear to Frances; and as Waring was not ac- 
quainted with Markham’s reputation, there was no suggestion in 
his mind of the name that was wanting to explain how the young 
officer, knowing nobody, had found entrance into the society which 
had ruined him. Frances told her tale in a few words. She was 
magnanimous, and said nothing of Constance! on the one hand, any- 
more than of Markham on the other. She told her father of the condi- 
tion in which the young man lay, of his constant mutterings, so 
painful to hear, the Red and Black that came up, over and over 
again, in his distracted thoughts — the distracting: burden that await- 
ed him if he ever got free of that circle of confusion and pain — of 
the old people in Switzerland waiting for the daily news, not coming 
to him as they wished, because of that one dread yet vulgar diffi- 
culty which only she understood. “ Mamma says, of course they 
tate. But how can I make her understand? and we know — ” 
would not hesitate at the expense. Oh, no, no! they would not hesi- 

“ How could she understand?” he said, with a pale smile, which 
Frances knew. ‘‘ She has never hesitated.” It was all that jarred 
even upon her excited nerves and mind. The situation was so 
much more clear to him than to the others, to whom young Gaunt 
was a stranger. And Waring was in his nature something of a 
Quixote to those who took him on the generous side. He listened — 
he understood; he remembered all that had gone on under his eyes. 
The young fellow had gone to Lcndon in desperation, unsettled, 
and wounded by the woman to whom he had given his love — and 
he had fallen into the first snare that presented itself. It was weak, 
it was miserable; but it was not more than a man could understand. 
When Frances found that at last her object was attained, the un- 
likeliness that it ever should have been attained, overwhelmed her 
even in the moment of victory. She clasped her arms round her 
father's arm, and laid down her head upon it, and, to his great sur- 
prise, burst into a passion of tears. ‘‘What is the matter? What 
has happened? Have I said anything to hurt you?” he cried, half 
touched, half vexed, not knowing what it was, smoothing her 
smooth hair half tenderly, half reluctantly, with his disengaged hand. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 291 

Oh, it is nothing, nothing It is my folly; it is — happiness. I 
have tried to tell them all, and no one would understand. But 
one’s father — one’s father is like no one else,” cried Frances, with 
her cheek upon his sleeve. 

Waring was altogether penetrated by these simple words, and by 
the childish action, which reminded him of the time when the little 
forlorn child he had carried awav with him had no one but him in 
the world. “My dear,” he said, “it makes me happy that you 
think so. I have been rather a failure I fear in most things; but if 
you think so, I can’t have been a failure all round.” His heart 
grew very soft over his little girl. He was in a new world, though 
it was the old one. His sister, whom he had not seen for so long, 
had half disgusted him with her violent partisanship, though his 
was the party she upheld so strongly. And Constance, who had no 
hold of habitual union upon him, had exhibited all her faults to his 
eyes. But his little girl was still his little girl, and believed in her 
father,* It brought a softening of all the ice and snow about his 
heart. 

They walked together through the many streets to inquire for 
poor Gaunt; and were admitted with shakings of the head and 
downcast looks. He had passed a very disturbed night, though at 
present he seemed to sleep. The nurse who had been up all night, 
and was much depressed, was afraid that there were symptoms of a 
“ change.” “ I think the parents should be sent for, sir,” she said, 
addressing herself at once to Waring. These attendants did not 
mind what they said over the uneasy bed. “ He don’t know what 
we are saying, any more than the bed he lies on. Look at him, 
miss, and tell me if you don’t think there is a change?” Frances 
held fast by her father’s arm. She whs more diffident in his pres- 
ence than she had been before. The sufferer’s gaunt face was 
flushed, his lips moved, though, in his wealoiess, his words were 
not audible. 'The other nurse, who had come to relieve her col- 
league, and who was fresh and unwearied, was far more hopeful. 
But she, too, thought that “ a change ” might be approaching, and 
that it would be well to summon the friends. She went down stairs 
■with them to talk it over a little more. “ It seems to me that he 
takes more notice than we are aware of,” she said. “ The ways of 
sick folks are that wonderful we don’t understand, not the half of 
them; seems to me that you have a kind of an influence, miss. Last 
night he changed after you were here, and took me for his mamma, 
and asked me what I meant, said something about a Miss Una that 
was true, and a false Jessie or something. I wonder if your name 
is Miss Una, miss?” This inquiry was made while Waring was 
writing a telegram to the parents. Frances, who was not very 
quick, could only wonder for a long time who Una was and Jessie. 
It was not till evening, nearly twelve hours after, that there sud- 
denly came into her mind the false Duessa of the poet. And then 
the question remained. Who was Una, and who Duessa? a question 
to which she could find no reply. 

Frances remained with her father the greater part of the day. 
Wlien she found that what she desired was to be done there fell a 
strange kind of lull into her being, which strangely took awa}^ her 
^trength, so that she scarcely felt herself able to hold up her head. 


292 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


She began to be aware that she liad neither slept by night nor had 
any peace by day, and that a fever of the mind had been stealing 
upon her, a sort of reflection of the other fever, in which her patient 
was enveloped as in a living shroud. She was scarcely able to stand, 
and yet she could not rest. Had she not put force upon herself, 
she would have been sending to and fro all day, creeping thither on 
limbs that would not support her, to know how he was, or if the 
change had yet appeared. She had not feared for his life before, 
having no tradition of death in her mind; but now an alarm grew 
upon her that any moment might see the blow fall, and that the 
parents might come in vain. It was while she stood at one of the 
windows of Mrs. Cavendish’s gloomy drawing-room, watching for 
the return of one of her messengers, that she saw her mother’s well- 
known brougham drive up to the door. She turned round with a 
little cry of “ Mamma ” to where her father was sitting, in one of 
the seldom-used chairs. Mrs. Cavendish, who would not leave him 
for many minutes, was hovering by, wearying his fastidious mind 
with unnecessary solicitude, and a succession of questions which he 
neither could nor wished to answer. She flung up her arms when 
she heard Frances’ crv. “ Your mother! Oh, has she dared! 
Edward, go away, and let me meet her. She will not get much out 
of me.” 

” Do you think I am going to fly from my wife?” Waring said. 
He rose up very tremulous, yet with a certain dignity. ” In that 
case I should not have come here.” 

‘ ‘ But, Edward, you are not prepared. Oh, Edward, be guided 
by me. If you get into that woman’s hands — ” 

” Hush,” he said; “ her daughter is here.” Then, with a smile: 
“ When a lady comes to see me I hope I can receive her still as a 
gentleman should, whoever she may be. ’ ’ 

The door opened, and Lady Markham came in. She was very 
pale, yet flushed from moment to moment. She, who had usually 
such perfect self-command, betrayed her agitation by little move- 
ments, by the clasping and unclasping of her hands, by a hurried, 
slightly audible breathing. She stood for a moment without ad- 
vancing, the door closing behind her, facing the agitated group. 
Frances, following an instinctive impulse, went hastily toward her 
mother, as a maid of honor in an emergency might hurry to take 
her place behind the queen. Mrs. Cavendish on her side, with a 
similar impulse, drew nearer to her brother — the way was cleared 
between the two, once lovers, now antagonists. The pause was but 
for a moment. Lady Markham, after that hesitation, came for- 
ward. She said: ” Edward, I should be wanting in my duty, if I 
did not come to welcome you home.” 

“Home!” he said, with a curious smile. Then he, too, came 
forward a little. “ I accept your advances in the same spirit, 
Adelaide.” She was holding out her hands to him with a little ap- 
peal, looking al him with eyes that sunk and rose again, an emotion 
that was restrained by her age, by her matronlv person, by the dig- 
nity of the woman, which could not be quenched by any flood of 
feeling. He took her hands in his with a strange timidity, hesitat- 
ing, as if there might be something more, then let them drop, and 
^e^ stood once more apart. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


293 


*‘Ihave to thank you, too,” she said, “for bringing Constance 
back to me safe and well; and what is more, Edward, for that 
child.” She put out her hand to Frances, and drew her close, so 
that the girl could feel the agitation in her mother’s whole person, 
and knew that weak as she was she was a support to the other, who 
was so much stronger. “ I owe you more thanks still for her— that 
she never had been taught to think any harm of her mother, that 
she came back to me as innocent and true as she went away.” 

' ‘ If you found her so, Adelaide, it was to her own praise, rather 
than mine.” 

“Nay,” she said, with a tremulous smile, “ I have not to learn 
now that the father of my children was fit to be trusted with a girl s 
mind-^more, perhaps, than their mother — and the world together.” 
She shook off this subject, which was too germane • to the whole 
matter, with a little tremulous movement of her head and hands. 
“ We must not enter on that,” she said. “ Though I am only a 
woman of the world, it might be too much for me. Discussion 
must be for another time. But we may be friends.” 

“ So far as I am concerned. ” 

“ And I, too, Edward, There are things even we might consult 
about — without prejudice, as the lawyers say — for the children’s 
good.” 

“ Whatever you wish my advice upon — ” 

“Yes, that is perhaps the way to put it,” Lady Markham said, 
after a pause which looked like disappointment, and with an agitated 
smile. “ Will you be so friendly, 'then,” she added, “ as to dine at 
my house with the girls and me? No one you dislike will be there. 
Sir Thomas, who is in great excitement about your arrival; and 
perhaps Claude Ramsay whom Constance has come back to marry.” 

“ Then she has settled that?” 

“ I think so; yet no doubt would like him to be seen by you. I 
hope you will come,” she said, looking up at him with a smile, 

“ It will be very strange,” he said, “ to dine as a guest at your 
table. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, Edward; but evejwthing is strange. We are so much 
older now than we were. We can afford, perhaps to disagree, and 
yet to be friends. ” 

“I will come if it will give you any pleasure,” he said. 

“Certainly, it will give me pleasure.” She had been standing 
all the time, not having even been offered a seat, an omission which 
neither he nor she had discovered. He did it now, placing with 
great politeness a chair for her; but she did not sit down. 

“For the first time, perhaps it is enough,” she said. “And 
Charlotte thinks it more than enough. Good-bye, Edward. If you 
will believe me, I am — truly glad to see you, and I hope we may be 
friends. ’ ’ 

She half raised her clasped hands again. This time he took them 
in both his, and leaning toward her, kissed her on the forehead, 
Frances felt the tremor that ran through her mother’s frame. 

“ Good-bye, ” she said, “ till this evening. ” Only the girl knew why 
Lady Markham hurried from the room. She stopped in the hall 
below to regain her self-command and arrange her bonnet. “ It is 
jsp lon^ since we have met,” she said, “it upsets me, Can j^ofi 


294 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


wonder, Frances? The woman in the end always feels it most. 
And then there are so many things to upset me just now. Con- 
stance and Markham — say nothing of Markham; do not mention his 
name — and even you — ” 

“ There is nothing about me to annoy you, mamma.” 

Lady Markham smiled with a face that v'as near crying. She 
gave a Jit tie tap with her finger upon Frances’ cheek, and then she 
hurried away. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

The dinner, it need scarcely be said, was a strange one. Except 
in Constance, who was perfectly cool, and Claude, who was* more 
concerned about a possible draught from a window than anything 
else, there was much agitation in the rest of the party. Lady Mark- 
ham was nervously cordial, anxious to talk and to make every- 
thing ” go ” — which, indeed, she w^ould have done far more effect- 
ually had she been able to retain her usual cheerful and benign 
composure. But there are some things which are scarcely possible 
even to the most accomplished woman of the world. How to place 
the guests, even, had been a trouble to her, almost too great to be 
faced. To place her husband by her side was more than she could 
bear, and where else could it be appropriate to place him, unless 
opposite to her, where the master of the house should sit? The 
difficulty was solved loosely by placing Constance there, and her 
father beside her. He sat between his daughters; while Ramsay 
and Sir Thomas were on either side of his wife. Under such cir- 
cumstances, it was impossible that the conversation could be other 
than formal, with outbursts of somewhat conventional vivacity 
from Sir Thomas, supported by anxious responses from Lady Mark- 
ham. Frances took refuge in saying nothing at all. And Waring 
sat like a ghost, with a smile on his face, in which there was a sort 
of pathetic humor, dashed with something that was half derision. 
To be sitting there at all was wonderful indeed, and to be listening 
to the small-talk of a London dinner-table, with all its little discus- 
sions, its talk of plays and pictures, and people, its scraps of polit- 
ical life behind the scenes, its esoteric revelations on all subjects, 
was more wonderful still. He had half forgotten it, and to come 
thus at a single step into the midst of it all, and hear this babble 
floating on the air which was charged with so many tragic elements, 
was more wonderful still. To think that they should all be look- 
ing at each other across the flow^ers and the crystal, and knowing 
what questions were to be solved between them, yet talking and ex- 
pecting others to talk of the new tenor and the last scandal! It 
seemed to the stranger out of the wilds, who had been banished 
from society so long, that it was a thing incredible, when he was 
thus thrown into it again. There were allusions to many things 
which he did not understand. There was something, for instance, 
about Nelly Winterbourn which called forth a startling response 
from Lady Markham. ‘‘You must not,” she said, ‘‘ say anything 
about poor Nelly in this house. From my heart, I am sorry and 
grieved for her; but in the circumstances, Vhat can any one do? 
The least said, the better, especially here.” The pause after this 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 295 

was minute but marked, and Waring asked Constance: “ Who is 
Nelly Winterbourn?” 

“ She is a young widow, papa. It was thought her husband had 
left her a large fortune; but he has left it to her on the condition 
that she should not marry again,” 

“ Is that why she is not to be spoken of in this house?” said 
Waring, growing red. This explanation had been asked and given 
in an under- tone. He thought it referred to the circumstances in 
which his own marriage had taken place — Lady Markham being a 
young widow with a large jointure; and that this was the reason 
why the other was not to be mentioned; and it gave him a hot sense 
of offense, restrained by the politeness which is exercised in society, 
but not always when the offenders are one’s wife and children. It 
turned the tide of softened thoughts back upon his heart, and in- 
creased to fierceness the derision with which he listened to all the 
trifles that floated uppermost. When the ladies left the room, he 
did not meet the questioning, almost timid look that Lady Markham 
threw upon him. He saw it, indeed, but he would not respond to 
it. That allusion had spoiled all the rest. 

In the little interval after dinner, Claude Ramsay did his best to 
make liimself agreeable. “ I am very glad to see you back, sir,” 
he said. ” I told Lady Markham it was the right thing. T^en a 
girl has a father, it’s always odd that he shouldn’t appear,” 

“ Oh, you told Lady Markham that it v^as — the right thing?” 

“ A coincidence, wasn’t it? when you were on your way,” said 
Claudt, perceiving the mistake he had made. “You know, sir,” 
he added with a little hesitation, ‘ ‘ that it has all been made up for 
a long time between Constance and me. ’ ’ 

“Yes? What has all been made up? I undertand that my 
daughter came out to me to — ’ ’ 

“ Oh!” said Claude, interrupting hurriedly, “it is that that has 
all been made up. Constance has been very nice alx)ut it,” he con- 
tinued, ‘ ‘ She has been making a study of the Riviera, and collect- 
ing all sorts of renseignements ; for in most cases, it is necessary for 
me to winter abroad. ’ ’ 

“ That was what she was doing there — her object, I suppose?” 
said Waring with a grim smile. 

“ Besides the pleasure of visiting you, sir,” said Claude, with 
what he felt to be great tact. “ She seems to have done a great deal 
of exploring, and she tells me she has found just the right site for 
the villa — and all the renseignements^'' he added. “ To have been 
on the spot, and studied the aspect, and how the w^inds blow, is 
such a great thing; and to be near your place too,” he said politely, 
by an after-thought. 

“ Which 1 hope is to be your place no more. Waring,” said Sir 
Thomas, “ Your own place is very empty, and craving for you all 
the time,” 

“ It is too fine a question to say what is my own place,” he said 
with that pale indignant smile. “ Things are seldom made any 
clearer by an absence of a dozen years.” 

“ A great deal clearer — the mists blow away, and the hot fumes. 
Come, Waring, say you are glad you have come home.” 

“ I suppose,” said Claude, “ you find it really too hot for sum- 


296 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

mer on that coast. What would you say was the end of the season? 
May? Just when London begins to be possible, and most people 
have come to town.” 

” Is not that one of the renseigneme nts Constsnce has given you?” 
Waring asked with a short laugh; but he made no reply to the other 
questions. And then there was a little of the inevitable politics be- 
fore the gentlemen went upstairs. Lady Markham had been threat- 
ened with what in France is called an attague des nerfs, when she 
reached the shelter of the drawing-room. She was a little hyster- 
ical, hardly able to get the better of the sobbing which assailed her. 
Constance stood apart, and looked on with a little surprise. ” You 
know, mamma,” she said reflectively, “ an effort is the only thing. 
With an effort, you can stop it.” 

Frances was differently affected by this emotion. She, who had 
never learned to be familiar, stole behind her mother’s chair and 
made her breast a pillow for Lady Markham’s head, a breast in 
which the heart was beating now high, now low, with excitement 
and despondency. She did not say anything; but there is sometimes 
comfort in a touch. It helped Lady Markham to subdue the un- 
wonted spasm. She held close for a moment the arms which were 
over her shoulders, and she replied to Constance: “Yes, that is 
true. I am ashamed of myself. I ought to know better — at my 
age.” 

” It has gone off on the whole veiy well,” Constance said. And 
then she retired to a sofa and took up a book. 

Lady Markham held Frances’ hands in hers for a moment or two 
longer, then drew her toward her and kissed her, still without a 
word. They had drawn nearer to each other in that silent encount- 
er than in all that had passed before. Lady Markham’s heart was 
full of many commotions; the past was rising up around her with 
all its agitating recollections. She looked back, and saw, oh, so 
clearly in that pale light which can never alter, the scenes that ought 
never to have been, the words that ought never to have been said, 
the faults, the mistakes — those things which were fixed there for- 
ever, not to be forgotten. Could they ever be forgotten? Could 
any postscript be put to the finished story? Or was this strange 
meeting — unsought, scarcely desired on either side, into which the 
separated Two, who ought to have been One, seemed to have been 
driven without any will of their own — was if to be mere useless ad- 
ditional pain, and no more? 

The ladies were all very peacefully employed when the gentle- 
men came upstairs. Lady Markham turned round as usual from 
her writing-table to receive them with a smile. Constance laid 
down her book. Frances, from her usual dim corner, lifted up her 
eyes to watch them as they came in. They stood in the middle of 
the room for a minute, and talked to each other according to the 
embarrassed usage of Englishmen, and then they distributed them- 
selves. Sir Thomas fell to Frances’ share. He turned to her 
eagerly, and took her hand and pressed it warmly. “We have 
done it,” he said in an excited whisper. “ So far, all is victorious; 
but still there is a great deal more to do.” 

“ I think it is Constance that has done it,” Frances said. 

“ She has worked for us — without meaning it — no doubt; but I 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 297 

am not going to give up the credit to Constance; and there is still a 

f reat deal to do. You must not lay down your arms, my dear. 

ou and I, we have the hall at our leet, but there is a e;reat deal 
still to do.” 

Frances made no reply. The corner which she had chosen for 
herself was almost concealed behind a screen which parted the room 
in two. The other group made a picture far enough withdrawn to 
gain perspective. Waring stood near his wife, who from time to 
time gave him a look, half watchful, half wistful, and sometimes 
made a remark, to which he gave a brief reply. His attitude and 
hers told a story; but it was a confused and uncertain one, of which 
the end was all darkness. They were together but fortuitously, 
without any will of their own; and between them was a gulf fixed. 
Which would cross it, or was it possible that it ever could be crossed 
at all? The room was very silent, for the conversation was not 
lively between Constance and Claude on the* sofa; and Sir Thomas 
was silent, watching too. All was so quiet, indeed, that every 
sound was audible without; but there was no expectation of any 
interruption, nobody looked for anything, there was a perfect in- 
difference to outside sounds. So much so, that for a moment the 
ladies were scarcely startled by the familiar noise, so constantly 
heard, of Markham’s hansom drawing up at the door. It could 
not be Markham; he was out of the way, disposed of till next morn- 
ing. But Lady Markham, with that presentiment which springs up 
most strongly when every avenue by which harm can come seems 
stopped, started, then rose to her feet with alarm. “ It can’t surely 
be — Oh, what has brought him here!’’’ she cried, and looked at 
Claude, to bid him, with her eyes, rush to meet him, stop him, keep 
him from coming in. But Claude did not understand her eyes. 

As for Waring, seeing that something had gone WTong in the pro- 
gramme, but not guessing what it was, he accepted her movement 
as a dismissal, and quietly joined his daughter and his friend be- 
hind the screen. The two men got behind it altogether, showing 
only where their heads passed its line; but the light was not bright 
in that corner, and the new-comer was full of his own affairs. For 
it was Markham, who came in rapidly, stopped by no wise agent, or 
suggestion of expediency. He came into the room dressed in light 
morning-clothes, greenish, grayish, yellowish, like the color of his 
sandy hair and complexion. He came in with his face puckered up 
and twitching, as it did when he was excited. His mother, Con- 
stance, Claude, sunk in the corner of the sofa, were all he saw; and 
he look no notice of Claude. He crossed that little opening amid 
the fashionably crowded furniture, and went and placed himself in 
front of the fireplace, which was full, at this season, of flowers, not 
of fire. From that point of vantage he greeted them with his usual 
laugh, but broken and embarrassed. “ Well, mother— well, Con; 
you thought you were clear of me for to-night.” 

“ I did not expect you, Markham. Is anything — has anything — ” 
“ Gone wrong?” he said. ” No — 1 don’t know that anything 
has gone wrong. That depends on how you look at it. I’ve been 
in the country all day.” 

“Yes, Marldiam; so I know.” 

“But not where I was going,” he said. His laugh broke out 


298 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 

again, quite irrelevant and inappropriate. “I’ve seen Nelly,” he 
said. 

“Markham!” his mother cried with a tone of wonder, disap- 
proval, indignation, such as had never been heard in her voice be- 
fore, through all that had be3n said and understood concerning 
Markham and Nelly Winterbourn. She had sunk into her chair, 
but now rose again in distress and anxiety. “Oh,” she cried, 
“ how could you? how could you? I thought you had some true 
feeling. Oh, Markham, how unworthy of you now to vex and com- 
promise that poor girl!” 

He made no answer for a moment, but moistened his lips, with a 
sound that seemed like a ghost of the habitual chuckle. “Yes,” 
he said, “ I know you made it all up that the chapter was closed 
now ; but I never said so, mother. Nelly’s where she was before, 
when we hadn’t the courage to do anything. Ojily worse: shamed 
and put in bondage by that miserable beggar’s will. And you all 
took it for granted that there was an end between her and me. I 
was waiting to marry her when she was free and rich, you all 
thought; but I wasn’t bound, to be sure, nor the sort of man to 
think of it twice when I knew she would be poor.” 

‘ ‘ Markham, no one ever said, nobody thought — ’ ’ 

“ Oh, I know ve^ well what people thought — and said too, for 
that matter,” said Markham. “I hope a fellow like me knows 
society well enough for that. A pair of old stagers like Nelly and 
me, of course we know what everybody said. Well, mammy, 
you’re mistaken this time, that’s all. There’s nothing to be taken 
for granted in this world. Nelly’s game, and so am I. As soon as 
it’s what you call decent, and the crape business done with — for she 
has alwavs done her duty by him, the fellow, as everybody 
knows — ’’ 

“ Markham!’^ his mother cried almost with a shriek — “ why, it 
is ruin, destruction. I must speak to Nelly — ruin both to her and 
you.” 

He laughed. “ Or else the t’other thing — salvation, you know. 
A^how, Nelly’s game for it, and so am I.” 

There suddenly glided into the light at this moment a little fig- 
ure, white, rapid, noiseless, and caught Markham’s arm in both 
hers. “ Oh, Markham! Oh, Markham!” cried Frances, “ I am so 
glad! I never believed it; I always knew it. I am so glad!” and 
began to cry, clinging to his arm. 

Markham’s puckered countenance twitched and puckered more 
and more. His chuckle sounded ovei her half like a sob. “ Look 
here,” he said. “ Here’s the little one approves. She’s the one to 
judge, the sort of still small voice — eh, mother? Come; I’ve got 
far better than I deserve; I’ve got little Fan on my side.” 

Lady Markham wrung her hands with an impatience which partly 
arose from her own better instincts. The words which she wanted 
would not come to her lips. “The child, what can she know!” 
she cried, and could say no more. 

“ Stand by me, little Fan,” said Markham, holding his little sis- 
ter close to him. “ Mother, it’s not a small thing that could part 
you and me; that is what I feel, nothing else. For the rest, we’ll 
take the Priory. Nelly and I, and be very jolly upon nothing. 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 399 

l\Iother, you didn’t think in your heart that your son was a base 
little beggar, no better than Winterbourn?” 

Lady Markham made no reply. She sunk down in her chair and 
covered her face with her hands. In the climax of so many emo- 
tions, she was overwhelmed. She could not stand up against Mark- 
ham; in her husband’s presence, with everything hanging in the 
balance, she could say nothing. The worldly wisdom she had 
learned melted away from her. Her heart was stirred to its depths, 
and the conventional bonds restrained it no more. A kind of sweet 
bitterness— a sense of desertion, yet hope — of secret approval, yet 
opposition, disabled her altogether. One or two convulsive sobs 
shook her frame. She was able to say nothing, nothing, and was 
sOent, covering her face with her hands. 

Waring had seen Markham come in with angry displeasure. He 
had listened with that keen curiosity of antagonism which is almost 
as warm as the interest of love, to hear what he had to say. Sir 
Thomas, standing by his side, threw in a word or two to explain, 
seeing an opportunity in this new development of affairs. But 
nothing was really altered until Frances rose. Her father watched 
her with a poignant anxiety, wonder, excitement. When she threw 
herself upon her brother’s arm, and, all alone in her youth, gave 
him her approval, the effect upon the mind of the father was very 
strange. He frowned and turned away, then came back and looked 
again. His daughter, his little white spotless child, thrown upon 
the shoulder of the young man whom he had believed he hated, his 
wife’s son, who had been always in his way. It was intolerable. 
He must spring forward, he thought, and pluck her away. But 
Markham’s stifled cry of emotion and happiness somehow arrested 
Waring. He looked again, and there was something tender, pa- 
thetic, in the group. He began to perceive dimly how it was. 
Markham was making a resolution which for a man of his kind was 
heroic; and the little sister, the child, his own child, of his train- 
ing, not of the world, had gone in her innocence and consecrated it 
with her approval. The approval of little Frances! And Mark- 
ham had the heart to feel that in that approval there was something 
beyond and above everything else that could be said to him. War- 
ing, too, like his wife, was in a condition of mind which offered no 
defense against the first touch of nature which was strong enough 
to reach him. He was open not to every-day reasoning, but to the 
sudden prick of a keen unhabitual feeling. A sudden impulse came 
upon him in this softened, excited mood. Had he paused to think, 
he would have turned his back upon this scene and hurried away, 
to be out of the contagion. But fortunately, he did not pause to 
think. He went forward quickly, laying his hand upon the back of 
the chair in which Lady Markham sat, struggling for calm— and 
confronted his old antagonist, his boy-enemy of former times, who 
recognized him suddenly, with a gasp of astonishment. “ Mark- 
ham,” he said, ” if I understand rightly, you are acting like a true 
and honorable man. Perhaps I have not done you justice, hither- 
to. Your mother does not seem able to say anything. I believe in 
my little girl’s instinct. If it will do you any good, you have my 
approval too.” 

Markham’s slackened arm dropped to his side, though Frances em- , 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


300 

braced it still. His very jaw dropped in the amazement, almost 
consternation of this sudden appearance. “ Sir!” he stammered, 
“ your— your — support— your — friendship would be all I could—’’ 
And here his voice failed him, and he said no more. 

Then Waring went a step further by an unaccountable impulse, 
which afterward he could not understand. He held out one hand, 
still holding with the other the back of Lady Markham’s chair. “ I 
know what the loss will be to your mother, ” he said; “ but per* 
haps — perhaps, if she pleases: that may be made up too.” 

She removed her hands suddenly and looked up at him. There 
was not a particle of color in her clieek. The hurrying of her heart 
parched her open lips. The two men clasped hands over her, and 
she saw them through a mist, for a moment side by side. 

As this moment of extreme agitation and excitement, La^ Mark- 
ham’s butler suddenly opened the drawing-room door. He came 
in with that solemnity of countenance with which, in his class, it is 
thought proper to name all that is preliminary to death. “ If you 
please, my lady,” he said, “ there’s a man below has come to say 
that the fever’s come to a crisis, and that there’s a change.” 

“You mean Captain Gaunt,” cried Lady Markham, rising with 
a half-stupefied look. She was so much worn by these divers emo- 
tions, that she did not see where she went. 

“ Captain Gaunt!’’ said Constance with a low cry. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Lady Markham was a woman, everybody knew, who never hesi- 
tated when she knew a thing to be her duty, especially in all that 
concerned hospitals and the sick. She appeared by George Gaunt’s 
bedside in the middle of what seemed to him a terrible, long, end- 
less night. It was not yet midnight, indeed; but they do not reckon 
by hours in the darkness through which he was drifting, through 
which there flashed upon his eyes confused gleams of scenes that 
were like scenes upon a stage all surrounded by darkness. The 
change had come. One of the nurses, the depressed one, thought 
it was for death; the other, possessed by the excitement of that 
great struggle, in which sometimes it appears that one human creat- 
ure can visibly help another to hold the last span of soil on which 
human foot can stand, stood by the bed, almost carried away by 
what to her was like the frenzy of battle to a soldier, watching to 
see where she < ould strike a blow at the adversary, or dr^ the 
cliampion a hair’s-breadth further on the side of victory. There 
appeared to him at that moment two forms floating in the air — lx)th 
white, bright, with the light upon them, radiant as with some glory 
of their own to the gaze of fever. He remembered them afterward 
as if they had floated out of the chamber, disembodied, two faces, 
nothing more; and then all again was night. “ He’s talked a deal 
about his mother, poor gentleman. He’ll never live to see his 
mother,” saia the melancholy attendant, shaking her head. 
“ Hush,” said the other under her breath. “ Don’t you know we 
can’t tell what he hears and what he don’t hear?” Lady Markham 
was of this opinion too. She called the doleful woman with her 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIKST ITSELF. 


301 

outside the door, and left the last battle to be fought out. Frances 
stood on the other side of the bed. How she came there, why she 
was allowed to come, neither she nor any one knew. She stood 
looking at him with an awe in her young soul which silenced every 
other feeling, Nelly Winterbourn had been afraid of death, of see- 
ing or coming near it. But Frances was not afraid. She stood, 
forgetting everything, with her head thrown back, her eyes ex- 
panded, her heart dilating and swelling in her bosom. She seemed 
to herself to be struggling too, gasping with his efforts for breath, 
helping him — oh, if she could help him! saying her simple prayers 
involuntarily, sometimes aloud. Over and over again, in the con- 
fusion and darkness and hurrying of the last battle, there would 
come to him a glimpse of that face. It floated over him, the light 
all concentrated in it — then rolling clouds and gloom. 

It was nearly morning when the doctor came. “Still living?’* 
“ Alive; but that is all,” was the brief interchange outside the door, 
He would have been surprised, had he had any time for extraneous 
emotions, to see on the other side of the patient’s bed, softly win- 
nowing the air with a large fan, a girl in evening dress, pearls 
gleaming upon her white neck, standing rapt and half uncon- 
scious in the midst of the unwonted scene. But the doctor had no 
time to be surprised. He went through his examination in that 
silence which sickens the very heart of the lookers on. Then he 
said briefly: “ It all depends now on the strength whether we can 
^11 him through. The fever is gone; but he is as weak as water. 
Keep him in life twelve hours longer, and he’ll do.” 

Twelve hours! one whole long lingering endless summer day. 
Lady Markham with her own affairs at such a crisis, had not hesi- 
tated. She came in now, having got a change of dress, and sent 
the weary nurse, who had stood over him all night, away. Blessed 
be fashion, when its fads are for angel’s work! Noiselessly into the 
room came with her, clean, fresh, and cool, everything that could 
restore. The morning light came softly in, the air from the open 
windows. Freshness and hope were in her face. She gave her 
daughter a look, a smile. “ He may be -weak, but he has never 
given in,” she said. Re- enforcements upon the fleld of battle. In a 
few hours, which were as a year, the hopeful nurse was back again 
refreshed. And thus the endless day went on. Noon, and still he 
lived. Markham walked about the little street with his pockets full 
of small moneys, buying off every costermonger or wandering street 
vender of small-wares, boldly interfering with the liberty of the 
subject, stopping indignant cabs, and carts half paralyzed with 
slow astonishment. It was scarcely necessary, for the patient’s 
brain was not yet sufficiently clear to be sensitive to noises; but it 
was something to do for him. A whole cycle of wonder had gone 
round, but there was no time to think of it in the absorbing interest 
of this. Waring had employed his wife’s son to clear off those 
debts, which, if the old general ever knew of them, would add sting 
to sorrow — which, if the wung man mended, would be a crushing 
weight round his neck. Waring had done this without a word or 
look that inferred that Markham was to blame. The age of mira- 
cles had come back; but, as would happen, perhaps, if that age did 
come back, no one had time or thought lo give to the prodigies, for 


A HOUSE DITIDEH AGAIKST ITSELF. 


302 

the profoiinder interest which no Tvonder could equal, the fight be- 
tween death and life, the sudden revelation in common life of all 
the mystej-ies that make humanity w^hat it is — the love which made 
a little worldling triumphant over every base suggestion — the pity 
that carried a woman out of herself and her own complicated 
affairs, to stand by another woman’s son in the last mortal crisis — 
the nature which suspended life in every one of all these differing 
human creatures, and half obliterated, in thought of another, all 
the interests that were their own. 

Through the dreadful night and through the endless sunshine of 
that day, a June day, lavish of light and pleasure, reluctant to re- 
linquish a moment of its joy and 1 riumph, the height of summer 
days, the old people, the old general and his wife, the father and 
mother, traveled without pause, with few words, with little hope, 
daring to say nothing to each other except faint questions and cal- 
culations as to when they could be there. When they could be 
there! They did not put the other question to each other, but 
within themselves, repeated it without ceasing: Would they be 
there before — ? Would they be there in time? to see him once 
again. They scarcely breathed when the cab, blundering along, 
got to the entrance of a little street, wdiere it was stopped by a wild 
figure in a gray overcoat, which rushed at the horse and held him 
back. Then the old general rose in his wrath: “Drive on, man! 
drive on. Ride him down, whoever the fool is.” And then, some- 
what as those faces had appeared at the sick man’s bedside, there 
came at the cab window an ugly little face, all puckers and light, 
half recognized as a bringer of good tidings, half hated as an ob- 
struction, saying: “All right — all right. I’m here to stop noises. 
He’s going to pull through.’’ 

“Mamma,” said Constance next evening, when all their excite- 
ment and emotions were softened down, “I hope you told Mrs. 
Gaunt that I had been there?” 

“ My dear, Mrs. Gaunt was not thinking of either you or me. 
Perhaps she might be conscious of Frances; I don’t know even 
that. When one’s child is dying, it does not matter to one who 
shows feeling. By and by, no doubt, she will be grateful to us all.” 

“ Not to me — never to me.” 

“ Perhaps she has no reason. Con,” her mother said. 

“lam sure I can not tell you, mamma. If he had died, of course 
— though even that would not have been my fault. I amused him 
very much for six weeks, and then he thought I behaved very 
badly to him. But all the time I felt sure that it would really do 
him no harm. I think it was cheap to buy at that price all your 
interest and everything that has been done for him — not to speak of 
the e^erience in life.” 

Lady Markham shook her head. “ Our experiences in life are 
sometimes not worth the price we pay for them; and to make 
another pay — ” 

“Oh!” said Constance with a toss of her head, shaking off self- 
reproach and this mild answer together. ‘ ‘ It appears that there is 
some post his father wants for him to keep him at home; and Claude 
will move heaven and earth — that’s to say the Horse Guards and all 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


303 


the other authorities — to get it. Mamma,” she added after a pause, 
“ Frances will marry him, if you don’t mind.” 

“Marry him!” cried Lady Markham wdth a shriek of alarm; 
“ that is what can never he.” 

Meanwhile, Frances was walking hack from Mrs. Gaunt’s lodg- 
ing, where the poor lady, all tremulous and shaken with joy and 
weariness, had been pouring into her sympathetic ears all the an- 
guish of the waiting, now so happily over, and weeping over the 
kindness of everyhod^y — everybody was so kind. What would have 
happened had not everybody been so kind? Frances had soothed 
her into calm, and coming down-stairs, had met Sir Thomas at the 
door with his inquiries. He looked a little grave, she thought, 
somewhat preoccupied. “ I am very glad,” he said, “ to have the 
chance of a talk with you, Frances. Are you going to walk? Then 
1 -will see you home.” 

Frances looked up in his face with simple pleasure. She tripped 
along by his side like a little girl, as she was. They might have 
been father and daughter smiling to each other, a pretty sight as 
they went upon their way. But Sir Thomas’ smile was grave. “ I 
want to speak to you on some serious subjects,” he said. 

“ About mamma? Oh, don’t you think. Sir Thomas, it is com- 
ing all right?” 

“ Not about your mother. It is coming all right, thank God, bet- 
ter than I ever hoped. This is about myself. Frances, give me 
your advice. You have seen a great deal since you came to town. 
What with Nelly Winterbourn and poor young Gaunt, and all that 
has happened in your own family, you have acquired what Con 
calls ej^erience in life.” 

Frances’ little countenance grew grave too. “ I don’t think it 
can be true life,” she said. 

He gave a little laugh, in which there was a tinge of embarrass- 
ment. “From your experience,” he said, “tell me: would you 
ever advise, Frances, a marriage between a girl like you— mind 
you, a good girl, that would do her duty not in Nelly Winter- 
bourn’s way — and an elderly, rather worldly man?” 

“ Oh, no, no. Sir Thomas,” cried the girl; and then she paused a 
little, and said to herself that perhaps she might have hurt Sir 
Thomas’ feelings by so distinct an expression. She faltered a little, 
and added; “ It would depend, wouldn’t it, upon who they were?” 

“ A little, perhaps,” he said. “ But I am glad I have had your 
first unbiased judgment. Now for particulars. The man is not a 
bad old fellow, and would take care of her. He is rich, and would 
provide for her, not like that hound Winterbourn. Oh, you need 
not make that gesture, mv dear, as if money meant nothing; for it 
means a great deal. And the girl is as good a little thing as ever 
was born. Society has got talking about it; it has been spread 
abroad everywhere; and perhaps, if it comes to nothing, it may do 
her harm. Now, with those further lights, let me have your de- 
liverance. And remember, it is very serious — not play at all.” 

“ I have not enough lights. Sir Thomas. Does she,” said Frances, 
with a slight hesitation — “ love him? And does he love her?” 

“ He is very fond of her; I’ll say that for him,” said Sir Thomas 
hurriedly. “Not perhaps in the boy-and-girl w^ay. And she— well, 


304 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. 


if you put me to it, I tliink she likes him, Frances. They are as 
friendly as possible together. She would go to him, I believe, with 
any of her little diflaculties. And he has as much faith in her — as 
much faith as in — I can’t put a limit to his faith in her,” he said. 
Frances looked up at him with the grave judicial look into which 
she had been forming her soft face. “ All you say. Sir Thomas, 
looks like a father and child. I would do that to papa — or to you.” 

Here he burst, to her astonishment, into a great fit of laughter, 
not without a little tremor, as of some of the feeling in it. ” You 
are a little Daniel,” he said. “ That’s quite conclusive, my dear. 
Oh, wise young judge, how I do honor thee.” 

“But — ” Frances cried, a little bewildered. Then she added: 
“ Well, you may laugh at me if you like. Of course, I am no 
judge; but if the gentleman is so like her father, can not she be 
quite happy in being fond of him, instead of — ? Oh, no! Alarry- 
in^ is quite different — quite, quite different. I feel ^re she would 
think so, if you were to ask her, herself,” she said. 

“ And what about the poor old man ?” 

“You did not say he was a poor old man; you said he was 
elderly, which means — ” 

“ About my age.” 

“ That is not an old man. And worldly — which is not like you. 
I think, if he is w^hat you say, that he would like better to keep his 
friend; because people can be friends. Sir Thomas, don’t you think, 
though one is young and one is old?” 

“ Certainly, Frances — witness you and me.” 

She took his arm affectionately of her own accord and gave it a 
little kind pressure. “ That is just what I was thinking,” she said, 
with the pleasantest smile in the world. 

Sir Thomas took Lady Markham aside in the evening and re- 
peated this conversation. “I don’t know who can have put such 
an absurd rumor about,” he said. 

“Nor I,” said Lady Markham; “but there are rumors about 
every one. It is not worth while taking any notice of them.” 

“But if I had thought Frances w^ould have liked it, I should 
never have hesitated a moment.” 

“ She might not what you call like it,” said Lady Markliam du- 
biously; “ and yet she might — ” 

“ Be talked into it, for her good? I wonder,” said Sir Thomas 
with spirit, “ whether my old friend, who has always been a model 
woman in my eyes, thinks that would be very creditable to me?” 

Lady Markham gave a little conscious guilty laugh, and then, 
oddly enough, which was so unlike her — twenty- four hours in a 
sick-room is trying to anyone — began to cry. “You flatter me with 
reproaches,” she said. “ Markham asks me if I expect my son to 
be base; and you ask me how I can be so base myself, being your 
model woman. I am not a model woman; I am only a woman of 
the world, that has been trying to do my best for my own. And 
look there,” she said, drying her eyes; “I have succeeded very 
well with Con. She will be quite happy in her way.” 

“And now,” said Sir Thomas after a pause, “ dear friend, who 
art still my model woman, how about your own affairs?” 

She blushed celestial rosy red, as if she liad been a girl. “ Oh,” 


A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAIHST ITSELF. 


305 


she S‘"id, “ I am going down with Edward to the Warren to see 
what it wants to make it habitable. If it is not too damp, and we 
can get it put in order — I am quite up in the sanitary part of it, 
you know — he means to send the Gaunts there with their son to 
recruit, when he* is well enough. I am so glad to be able to do 
something for his old neighbors. And then we shall have time 
ourselves, before the season is over, to settle what we shall do. ’ ’ 

The reader is far too knowing in such matters not to be able to 
divine how the marriages followed each other in the Waring fam- 
ily within the course of that year. Young Gaunt, when he got 
better, confused with his illness, soothed by the weakness of his 
convalescence md all the tender cares about him, came at last to 
believe that the debts which had driven him out of his senses had 
been nothing but a bad dream. He consulted Markham about them, 
detailing his broken recollections. Markham replied with a per- 
fectly opaque countenance: “You must have been dreaming, old 
man. Nightmares take that form the same as another. Never 
heard half a word from any side about it; and you know those fel- 
lows, if you owed them sixpence and didn’t pay, would publish it 
in every club in London. It has been a bad dream. But look 
here,” he added; “ don’t you ever go in for that sort of thing again. 
Your head won’t stand it. I’m going to set you the example,^’ he 
said with his laugh. ‘ ‘ Never — if I should live to be a hundred, ’ ’ 
Gaunt cried with fervor. The sensation of this extraordinary es- 
cape, which he could not understand, the relief of having nothing 
to confess to the general, nothing to bring tears from his mother’s 
eyes, affected him like a miraculous interposition of God, which no 
doubt it was, though he never knew how. There was another vis- 
ion which belonged to the time of his illness, but which was less 
apocryphal, as • it turned out — the vision of those two forms 
through the mist — of one, all wdiite, with pearls on the milky throat, 
which had been somehow accompanied in his mind with a private 
comment, that at last false Duessa being gone forever, the true 
Una had come to him. After awhile, in the greenness of the War- 
ren, amid the cool shade, he learned to fathom how that -was. 

But were we to enter into all the processes by which Lady Mark- 
ham changed from the “ That can never be!” of her first light on 
the subject, to giving a reluctant consent to Frances’ marriage, we 
should require another volume. It may be enough to say that in 
after-days. Captain Gaunt — but he was then colonel — thought Con- 
stance a very handsome woman, but could not understand how 
any one in his senses could consider the wife of Claude Kamsay 
w^orthy of a moment’s comparison with his own. “Handsome, 
yes, no doubt,” he would say; “ and so is Nelly Markham, for that 
matter; but of the earth, earthy, or of the world, worldly; whereas 
Frances — ” 

Words failed to express the difference, which was one with which 
words had nothing to do. 


THE END, 


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Works by the author of “ Adf1ie*s 
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388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


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504 My Poor Wife 10 

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146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

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651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

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18 Shandon Bells 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

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23 A Princess of Thule ^ 

39 In Silk Attire ^ 

44 Macleod of Dare ^ 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

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70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
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THE SEASIDE LlBiiAUY .—Docket Edition. 


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81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 
065 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

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470 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
827 White Heather 20 

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67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
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815 Mary Anerley 20 

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629 Ciipps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. First half... 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. Second half. 20 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 ( 'lara Vaughan 20 

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686 Alice Lorraine. Second half.. 20 

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263 An Ishmaelite 20 

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478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
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480 Married in Haste. E(kted by 
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487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. K. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

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498 Only a Clod 20 

490 The Cloven Foot 20 

611 A Strange World 20 

615 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

624 Strangers and Pilgrims 90 

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642 Fenton’s Quest 20 

644 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

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648 The Fatal Marriage, and The 
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549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 


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552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

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557 To the Bitter End 00 

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560 Asphodel 20 

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567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. ... 20 
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Cairist- ' 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miis M. 

E. Braddon 26 


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Author of “ Bora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

61 Dora Thorne 20 

64 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

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73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms.. 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

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254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

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283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War W'ith Herself 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda 10 

295 A Woman’s Wdr 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

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300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

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303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 16 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 16 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 90 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves M 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 


TEE SEASIDE LlBRAUY.—Pochet Edition. 


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469 Lady Damer’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly ^ 

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476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

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576 Her Martyrdom . 520 


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Hu8:h Conway’s Works. 


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302 'I’he Blatchford Bequest 10 

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601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

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57 Shirley ^ 

Khoda Broughton’s Works. 

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101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nancy 20 

845 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

Hobert Buchanan’s Works. 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

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154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard. 10 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan.... 10 
646 The Master of the Mine 10 

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384 On Horseback Through Asia 
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521 Entangled 20 

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396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barnara Heathcote’s Trial 20 

608 For Lilias 20 

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52 The New Magdalen 10 

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167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

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175 Love’s Random Shot 10 

233 “ I Saj’ No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Toucli, and Percy 

and tlie Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 

(3) 


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60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

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309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers ; or, The Sources 

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349 The Two Admirals 20' 

359 The Water-Witch 20' 

361 The Red Rover 20- 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

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379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

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380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

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385 The Headsman; or. The Ab- 

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394 The Bravo 20' 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or, The Leag- 
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400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . . 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20' 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

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415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef 20' 

419 TheChainbearer; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20' 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

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421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 
Injin, Being the conclusion 
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422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or, The Bee- . 

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431 The Monikins 20 


Georgiana M. Craik’s Works. 

4.50 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 

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207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride.. lO 

412 Some One Else 20 


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22 David Copperfield. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. IT.^. 20 
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24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. 20 
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91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. Plrst half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half 20 

106 Bl*ak House. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

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131 Our Mutual Friend 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. .. 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

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169 The Haunted Man 10 

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439 Great Expectations 20 

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453 The Lottery Ticket 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband.. ^ 
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648 The Angel of the Bells JJO 

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129 Rossmoyne 10 

134 The Witching Hour, and Other 

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136 “That Last Rehearsal,’’ and 

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166 Moonshine and Marguerites.... 10 

171 Fortune’s Wheel 10 

284 Doris 10 

312 A Week in Killarney 10 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

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390 Mildred Trevanion 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

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486 Dick’s Sweetheart 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
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517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

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262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

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262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 
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31 Middlemarch. 2d half ^ 

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34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 20 

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179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 29 

657 Christmas Angel 10 

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193 The Rosery Folk 10 

5.58 Povt-rcv Corner 20 

587 TliH" Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House 10 

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66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 10 

3S6 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
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TEE SEASIDE LIBEARY.— Pocket Edition. 


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80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
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484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
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314 Peru 20 

572 Healey 20 

R. £. Francillou’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 
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£iuile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113. 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. ... 20 

96 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

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^ The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

817 By Mead and Stream 20 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

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530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

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143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 


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832 Judith Wynne 20 

^ Lady Lovelace 20 


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117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 
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191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
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212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
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243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

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243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Sec- 
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Mary Linskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son -20 

620 Between the Heather and the 
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Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 

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40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
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162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
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George Macdonald’s Works. 


282 Donal Grant 20 

3^ The Portent 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

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Florence Marryat’s Works. 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. .. 10 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

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208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

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276 Under the Lilies and Roses — 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player 20 

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88 The Privateersman 20 

272 The Little Savage 10 

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13 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

438 Found Out 10 

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673 Story of a Sin 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBEARY.— Pocket Edition. 


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121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola 20 

685 E n e: 1 a n d Under Gladstone. 

1880—1885 20 

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267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

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268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

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269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

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Jean Middlemas’s Works. 

155 Lady Muriel's Secret 20 

539 Silvermead 20 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “Golden Girls’’ 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 .John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy 10 

David Christie fliurray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ’’ 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 


Works by the author of ‘‘My 
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876 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter... 20 

f W. E. Norris’s Works. 


184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

600 Adrian Vidal 20 

Laurence Oliphant's Works. 

47 Altiora Peto SO 

637 Piccadilly 10 

Mrs. Oliphant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

821 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
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622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil... 10 
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120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

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127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

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158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 

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160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

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161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

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163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
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170 A Gi'eat Treason.' Mary Hop- 

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174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

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178 More Leaves from the Journal 
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182 The Millionaire 20 

185 Dita. Ijady Margaret Majendie 10 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

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198 A Husband’s Story 10 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 
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218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James.. 20 

219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 

the Forges. From French of 

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242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 

253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer. . 10 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
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266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
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den 20 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” 10 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. R.. 

H; Dana, Jr 20 

313 The Lover's Creed. Mrs. Cash- 
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322 A Woman’s Love-Stor}' 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann Chat- 
rian 10 




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MiscelTaneous— Continued. 
830 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 


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334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

835 The White Witch 20 

838 The Family Difficulty. Sarah 
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340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince ; 20 

360 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 
854 The Lottery of Life. A Story 
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Ago. John Brougham 20 


855 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 
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356 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 
365 George Ctjristy ; or. The For- 
tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 


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866 The Mysterious Huntet; or. 
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C. Carleton 20 

869 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
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874 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

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881 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

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882 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

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883 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

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387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
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389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

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899 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
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405 My Friends and I, Edited by 

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406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 'l^lney Hall. Thomas Hood. .. 20 
426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ’’ 10 

432 The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

436 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

486 Stella. Fanny Lewald ^ 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

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448 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
452 In the West Countrie. May 
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457 The Russians at the Gates of 


Herat. Charles Marvin 10 

458 A Week of Pa.ssion; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Lewis Carrol 

With forty-two illustrations 

by John Tenniel 20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

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474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 20 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord’’ 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman t 10 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

509 Nell Haffenden. Tighe Hopkins 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Poynter 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ’’ 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 20 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

The Black Watch in Egypt. 

James Grant 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 
rny ns Carr 10 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
Mayne Reid 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Allessandro Manzoni 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith . . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

595 A North Country Maid. Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ’’ 20 

614 No. 99. Arthur Griffiths 10 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn Id 

628 Wedded Hands. Author of 
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637 What’s His Offence? 20 

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648 Tbe Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 
Crayon, Gent, Washington 

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644 A Girtou Girl. Mrs. Annie Ed- 
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•62 The Lady with the Rubies. E. 

Marlitt , 20 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

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662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 
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675 Mrs, Dyniond. Miss Thackeray 20 
677 Griselda. Author of “ A Wom- 


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668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 
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679 Where Two Ways Meet. Sarah 

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681 A Singer’s Story, ]\lay Laffan. 10 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. Mrs. J. Hai'court-Roe. 20 

680 Fast and Loose. Arthur Grif- 

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684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. Robert Louis 
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The New York Fashion Bazar for 
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The Fashion Bazar, published by 
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The New York Fashion Bazar for 
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per copy. Subscription price $3.00 per year. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Van dewater Street, N. Y. 


f 


THE CELEBRATED 



GEAND, SQUAEE AlTD TJPEIGHT PIANOS. 


I 

i 

i 



ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS- 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1883. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count ot their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite "with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


FROM THE 
NERVE -GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 

BRAIN AND NERVE FOOD. 

CROSBY’S 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralg:ia and sick headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion; regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


” It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 



NEW ^ 

TABEENACIS SERMONS, 


Preached in the Brooklyn Tabernacle. 

By Bey. T. DeWitt Talmage, D.l). 

12mo. Handsomely Bonnd in Cloth $1.00. 

CONTENTS : 


Brawn and Muscle. 
The Pleiades and Orion 
The Queen’s Visit. 
Vicarious Suffering. 
Posthumous Opportu- 
nity. 

The Lord’s Razor. 
Windows Toward Je- 
rusalem. 

Stormed and Taken. 
All the World Akin. 

A Momentous Quest. 
The Great Assize. 

The Road to the City. 
The Ransomless. 

The Three Groups. 


The Insignificant. 

The Three Rings. 

How He Came to Say 
It. 

Castle Jesus. 

Stripping the Slain, 
Sold Out. 

Summer Temptations. 
The Bani.shed Queen. 
The Day We Live In. 
Capital and Labor. 
Tobacco and Opium. 
Despotism of the 
Needle. 

Why are Satan and Sin 
Permitted? 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 
Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


The book will be forwarded, postage pre- 
paid, on receipt of price, $1.00. Address 

GSORGE MUNROj Munro’s Publisliing Honsp^ 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewat^r St,, N, Y, 





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